


Little Birds

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Samifer - Freeform, Samifer Week 2013, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 89,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds out that when angels are at their weakest, they become little birds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Could Nurse It

**Author's Note:**

> "I owe it all to you, my little bird." - Ed Sheeran 
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>  This fun and fluff fic was inspired by [THIS](http://awkwardsituationist.tumblr.com/post/62850102167/one-stormy-night-my-girlfriend-saw-what-we-thought)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of service. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

They barely notice the dead bird beside the Impala, tucked into a divot of gravel and grass. It’s only because Sam has his head down, walking around the onyx frame of the car to get into the passenger’s seat, does he spot the bird sprawled out and ants marching across its lifeless body. He only takes a moment to take it in: wings inoperable, not at all pretty and eyes crusted with gunk that the ants are furiously biting at. It’s nothing but an ugly, dead bird. 

Making a face in pity, his hand reaches behind him for the door when he sees the bird’s chest rise and fall shakily.

It’s alive. Barely. 

Maybe it’s out of a need for something to sidetrack him from the disaster that is Earth. Maybe it’s out of pity, or something bigger than pity itself, that has Sam coaxing Dean to stall their excursion on getting food. A shoebox is used to carry the bird from the gravel to the bunker, Sam listening to his older brother curse at the possibility of ants running rampant around the bunker. 

But Sam gently washes the ants away in the sink, the bird trembling violently under the low stream of water. He avoids touching its eyes, what now looks like accumulated pus, unsure of how to deal with it. The hunter uses a rag to run across the shredded and mangled wings, the bird’s feathers turning shades of burnt brown as water soaks into each feather. It’s smaller than his hand, light and legs bending and curling into itself. Sam’s nearly worried he’ll crush it with his fingers when he turns the bird onto its other side.

Sam dries the bird carefully and fills the shoebox with towels and rags, laying it carefully on the bedded material. It only twitches in a sign of life, not a single sound leaving it.

“Dude, that is _the_ ugliest bird I’ve ever seen,” Dean snorts between brushing his teeth, eyeing Sam’s handiwork beside the sole window in the bunker hours later. The bird is snoring softly in its bed, Dean earning an unamused look from Sam who is reading a few feet away. He’s been trying to figure out what exactly this bird is, but he’s certain it’s nothing but a common sparrow. There’s toothpaste dripping from the corner of Dean’s mouth and the brunette does an unattractive slurp in aim of keeping the toothpaste contained.

Sam makes a face, torn between laughing and scowling at his sibling, “Like you’re doing better yourself.” 

“Whatever, man, it’s cool if you’re jealous,” Dean replies through a mouthful of toothpaste, waving his hand in dismissal and making a beeline to the bathroom. Sam watches him with a concluding snort in humor, turning back to the weighty tome in his lap. 

Birds evade him. He remembers dissecting one in seventh grade in Iowa to examine the orchestra of bones and muscles, along with painfully identifying each type of feather. Sam doubts anything from that science lab is going to help him here. All he has is a general guide to birds in regards to identifying birds and the Internet shooting him advice that all differ exponentially. It’s not helping him determine the actual state of the bird or it’s case of blindness. 

Words are blurring together the longer he stares at the text before he closes the book in finality. He’ll try again tomorrow, but for now there is a certain thrum of success coursing through his system. _This_ felt good. Small and a bit silly, but it takes away from the enormity of the impossibility their current circumstances are in regards to angels, Heaven and whatnot. They can’t find the fallen angels to save their lives but at least Sam can help this little winged fellow. 

Shuffling off to bed, tome abandoned on his chair, sleep hits him hard between the eyes until Dean jabbed him hard between the ribs.

Sam is roused from sleep from a groggy Dean Winchester, hair in a fury of bunched clumps and wearing the monogrammed robe Dean has fallen in love with. Sam wants to laugh at the sight but he’s annoyed at being woken up at -- Sam twists on his side to eye his alarm clock -- three thirty-five in the morning. 

“Dude, it’s three in the morning. You’re little bird friend is pissing me off,” Dean growls out, voice drunk with sleep and rough around the edges. 

The younger inhales in confusion, stretching his limbs before he’s crawling out of bed. He can hear it now. There’s chirping filling the bunker, airy but piercing enough, apparently, to rouse Dean from his sleep. As much as he wants to sympathize, Sam’s feeling a smile tug on his lips to just hear the little bird talking. 

“He’s feeling better,” Sam mumbles with a goofy smile.

“Awesome. Tell it to shut up.” 

There’s a little sparrow moving painfully slow in the shoebox, disfigured and mangled wings spread out to give itself balance as it chirps insistently. 

“Hey, hey, shh, I’m here,” Sam hushes, reaching out carefully to let the pads of his fingers rub against its head. It swivels its head violently, giving a high-pitched sound in surprise and pecking at Sam’s middle finger. “Ow -- hey! Okay. Let’s...” Sam casts a cursory look across the bunker for clues, “Let’s...get you some food, okay?” It quiets down for a moment, as if for some reason his words made sense to the little creature trying its best to see him.

Taking it as his cue, Sam begins to pad over in the direction of the kitchen before the bird is chirping again. Sighing heavily, Sam carefully moves the shoebox to the kitchen. 

Figuring out what a bird should eat isn’t necessarily easy. He has some trail mix but it may be too hard for the bird to dig into and digest. Scrounging for worms is completely out of the question. His hoarded box of blueberries stares back at him, picking it from the fridge and offering the smallest he can find to the talkative sparrow. 

It picks at it, missing it a few times on the floor of towels and rags, before it takes it fully in. The bird gives a soft sound before its feathers are standing, body fluffed and looking suddenly large. Sam has no clue what that means. Sign of dislike? Intimidation? It likes it? Fluffed and giving a full-body tremble, it gives a curious little sound and picks at the ground where the blueberry once sat. Sam can’t help but laugh, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes as he watches the bird open its mouth expectantly. 

“You never had a blueberry before?” 

It gives a chirp, shuffles closer towards Sam and opens its mouth once more. Sam’s laughter fills the kitchen, handing another blueberry to the bird that is instantly demolished. 

It takes four blueberries before it sits on the floor, giving a content sound that sounded oddly like a burp. 

Moving the shoebox to his room, he places it gently on the bed to determine where to put the bird before it’s chirping pitifully for attention, again. The chirping seemed to grow louder until he picked the little bird up. Fingers carefully scoop it up as Sam sits on the bed, staring through the gloom in his room at the now, silent, bird.

It sits, _stunned_ , in Sam’s large hands. 

Little feet walk across the surface of his palm, a questioning ‘peep’ leaving its mouth before it gives a light peck at a callous. Sam curls his fingers so the bird can’t fall out, watching it explore blindly the inside of his hand. It lets the tip of its beak run across the wall of fingers, trying to determine where it’s at. 

Sam gives a surprised inhale when the sparrow drops its head and rubs it affectionately against Sam’s thumb. Sam lets his thumb curl, watching with a breathy chuckle the bird rub against the crook his thumb created. 

“I’m gonna move, okay? Don’t freak out.” 

The hunter slides further back into the bed, doing his best to wiggle his feet under the covers and kick them his way. The sparrow gives an offended sound, as if it didn’t need to see to know the awkward hilarity concerning Sam’s legs and the sheets. 

Finally bringing the bird closer to his chest, the hunter watches it pick at the fabric in curiosity, soon walking on Sam’s chest. He can feel the pinprick of the bird’s feet through the cotton of his shirt, giving an indignant squawk when his chest rises with a short laugh. The bird is left with ruffled feathers and releasing annoyed huffs. Picking at Sam’s shirt in a strange form of retribution, the bird finally settles on his chest, burying its head under the crook of its wing. 

Sam watches the bird doze off in seconds, sitting still on his chest as he breathes slowly. The bird looks like a puffed ball of feathers rising and falling on his chest, Sam doing his best to stifle his oncoming laugh. It doesn’t take him long to drift off, humorous smile refusing to leave his lips even in sleep. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The hunter wakes up to the sensation of something heavy against his chest. Incredibly heavy. Groaning, he shifts to adjust the weight but it only seems to follow him. It had to be Dean being an ass to him, trying to sit on him while he’s asleep -- which still seemed farfetched as he weighed the possibilities of it. Did Dean replace the bird with one of his books? Did he fall asleep with the laptop on his chest again? Giving up, he lets his hand reach out to push the weight away, instantly jerking his hand away when his fingers touched hair.

Soft hair. 

Sam’s eyes open and there is no bird laying on his chest. Certainly no Dean sitting on his chest. There was a very naked Lucifer drooling on his chest. A naked, drooling Lucifer who is beginning to stir. 

Whatever shout or scream ready to leave his mouth is muted, frozen in surprise at the the blond male stirring on his chest. 

It takes a moment of stupor for Sam to react, knee suddenly popping up and ramming into the corner pocket of Lucifer’s shoulder. Cloudy blue eyes are suddenly open, yelping in pain and Sam twists on the bed. “Sam?” the archangel rushes out in surprise and it sends a cold chill to hear that voice again. Gripping the mattress for support, he shoves Lucifer hard off his bed with his feet, watching a very surprised archangel falling off the bed. 

There’s a hard thump and a sudden rush of chirping, loud and erratic. 

Sam scrambles off the bed, feet twisted in the sheets and nearly taking him down. He’s struggling to get himself to his feet, rushing towards the knife still packed in his pack. Ripping it from the depths of his backpack, he holds it warily at whatever is on the other side of the bed. Maybe he can’t kill the Devil but he can at least do some damage. 

Carefully sidestepping around the bed frame, Sam’s at a loss of what is laying before him.

Sam can see that there is nothing but a little bird on its back, wings flapping uselessly and feet racing across the air in stagnation. It can’t seem to turn itself over, eyes still crusted shut and crying out in distress at being upside down. 

“Lucifer?” he calls out warily. Sam’s not sure if he should hurl the bird out of the bunker or shove it in the torture basement. 

Sam’s at a loss, staring at a little bird doing its best to stare right back at him.


	2. Devil On My Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam may like the idea of a bird more than the devil.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

Sam swears he saw the Devil. 

Yet there is a sparrow in its wake, feet kicking and shredded wings beating against hard floor of his room. It wouldn’t take much to kill the little bird, aware there is Ruby’s knife gripped tightly in his hand. It wouldn’t take much effort to pick the bird up and return it to where he found it, if not farther. But he finds his feet stuck, hands uncurling by his sides and already with a decision on the tip of his tongue. 

Sam listens to the bird cry itself hoarse. It’s only when the chirps die down to wheezing trills does he move over, watching the bird blindly move its head. 

Crouching down, hearing his knees pop at the movement, he carefully squints at the bird. There’s nothing particularly angelic about the look of the bird. Looked common and in bad shape, always expecting that if there was anything Lucifer was going to be, it’d be showy, big and bright. Instead, before him, is a dull and broken bird. 

Something about that makes his chest feel tight. 

Carefully, he lets his fingers turn the bird over, watching it cautiously get on its feet. Its little head is moving, hopping to the left and trying vainly to look up at him. 

“Lucifer?”

It gives a watery sound, chest expanding and making himself large, feathers flaring out and only accomplishing in making its little head look smaller. He already is envisioning the older being folding his arms across his chest fluidly and ushering out a caustic, _Who else?_ The brunette watches the bird’s feathers gradually smooth down, giving a questioning little sound that Sam can only guess at. 

This is the dream all over again. Waking up to the devil and listening to him earnestly explain his cause, too relatable in a way that it makes Sam’s insides ring with a hollow note. Explaining that he’s at Sam’s mercy and will wait for it, if he must. Sam doesn’t even know why he’s crouched down and pretending he’s still debating on what to do with this little bird. 

There’s a small voice whispering cruelly in his ear that this is pity. 

He’s pitying Lucifer because he no longer looks relatable. He doesn’t look human. He doesn’t frown. His brows don’t knit together to paint the hurt on his features. There are no blooming sores to balk and shy away from. He’s now tiny and vulnerable, completely at his mercy. There is just a little bird and Sam doesn’t want to help the devil. He wants to help the bird. 

Sam doesn’t bother to challenge those words, just sharing a brief frown with a bird that can’t even see his face. “Do you wanna see again?” he asks it quietly, and the bird’s body becomes puffed out once more, giving a broken note in response. Sam takes it as a ‘yes’, about to pick the bird up but it nips at one of his fingers. 

“Uh...do you not want to be picked up?” Sam asks, the bird chips something in response and hops to the left, giving an insistent chirp.

Sam gets to his feet, frowning. Slowly he makes his way towards the door, watching the little bird tilt its head and hop on forward. Lucifer wants to follow him -- or at least what he’s assuming is Lucifer. Could still be another brain addled hallucination, although why it is coming back to him now escapes the hunter. But the little bird is defiantly doing its best to follow Sam, refusing all aid. 

It’s beginning to grow winded, wings fluttering and flapping at his sides as if it knew it’d be easier to fly. It'd tilt its head, as if straining to hear the direction of Sam's footsteps. It nearly tips over when weight isn’t distributed correctly, left wing awkwardly folding in to keep itself righted. The bird stubbornly keeps on going, chirping angrily whenever he hears Sam’s footsteps coming to a halt to wait for him, as if there is something to prove by doing this by himself.

Sam finds his cellphone tucked into the depths of one of the armchairs in the library, fishing the half-submerged phone. Sliding his finger across the screen, he eyes the little bird that is standing before him, panting for air. It rustles its wings, the bird looking agitated that it nearly makes Sam balk because there is that emotional fluidity Lucifer wore from before. Now it’s constrained to his wings and the trilling of his voice, still able to give off the impression of royally annoyed. Sam just can’t understand why he’s trying so hard to associate Lucifer’s previous motions with this bird. 

“I’m going to call the local vet. See if they have any solutions. Figured that’s better than having them pick and prod at you first,” Sam explains experimentally, watching the bird deflate and sit on the ground. It was enough to appease the archangel, perhaps Lucifer annoyed he was unable to see what’s going on around him. His miniature body rises and falls as he breathes, head tilting to the side as if it’s doing its best to hear the conversation to come. 

Sam’s impressed that he’s dealing with this so well, certain it’s because the entire landscape of the archangel is profoundly different. Lucifer is so tiny against the floor — against the size of his foot! How does a bird even contain an archangel? Sam draws a blank at attempting to understand the semantics of Grace and bird, opting to searching on his phone for a number. Finding a number, he flops down on the armchair. It takes ten minutes of conversing, hopping from his own armchair to grab a pen and a notepad, and an irritated bird chasing after him before he has the solution in hand. 

“So they said I should feed you watered down cat food…” Sam comments to the bird who is making the determined but long trek up his pant’s leg, “Can’t believe I’m going to buy cat food…” Little talons continue to knick at his skin but he keeps his mouth shut on the matter before he’s letting his hand cup the bird. “Let go of my pants. I know you can do it, but I need to move and I don’t want to fling you across the floor — ” 

“Sammy?” 

Dean’s voice comes flying in, the younger hunter feeling his heart leap into his throat because Lucifer is climbing up his leg. For a moment he wildly believes Dean is going to see the little sparrow making its way up and know it’s the Devil in the…feathers? Carefully cupping the bird, he feels a little beak nip at his callouses before Sam decides to place the sparrow on his shoulder. There’s a pleased sound hitting his left ear and the light weight of the sparrow adjusting itself on his shoulder. 

“Sammy — _oh look_ , the little shit is up, too,” Dean swings around the corner, leering at the sparrow perched on Sam. 

Sam stares for a moment, at a loss of what to do. He should tell Dean. They just had a talk about being able to trust each other and keeping Lucifer a secret felt… It reminded Sam of the way Dean would look at him whenever Ruby was mentioned. A look that cuts deep because it was of terror, heartbreak and exhaustion. It tastes like the church all over again, on his tongue. Disappointed at himself for being a hinderance to his brother, for not being able to provide what Benny or Cas or Charlie or Kevin or —

“So, ah, it got a name?” 

Dean’s closer now, peering up at the bird that is shuffling closer to Sam’s neck. Sam turns his head to glance at the bird who is looking right back at him. He should tell him now. Get it over with. 

“Uh…” he begins before shaking his head, “No, no name yet. Uh, I just called the vet to see what I could do about his eyes. Suggested just using eyedrops and it should clear it away.” 

“He?” Dean is busy eyeing the sparrow warily. 

Sam finds himself stumbling, unsure of how to respond until the sparrow on his shoulder chirps. “Er…yeah, a he,” he confirms before he’s waving his hand in dismissal, quickly adding, “I dunno, Dean. I don’t really know a lot about birds.” It comes off more annoyed than he intended, Dean raising his hands up in mock surrender.

“Do birds even have dicks?” 

“ _Dean!_ ” 

“ _What_ , it’s a simple question!” Dean defends, watching Sam roll his eyes and walk out of the library. He trails after him, yawning loudly, “There’s eyedrops in my bathroom. I’ll make breakfast.” Sam snorts at his brother, who is gesticulating to the kitchen as if it’s a chore to make breakfast. The younger hunter can’t remember a time in the bunker where Dean doesn’t push him away from the stove and give a _“Watch the master at work, Sammy”_ or _“We’ve been making scrambled eggs wrong the whole time. Gordon Ramsey does it like this”_ speech. 

Sam usually humors Dean but he’s making a beeline to Dean’s bathroom, desperate to put distance between himself and his brother. He only slows down when there’s a sharp sound coming from the sparrow, wings flapping and hitting his head when he nearly jostles the bird off of him. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, flipping the light on and closing the door after him. 

He just breathes. Bringing his heart rate down and baffled by how clumsy that interaction turned out to be. He needs to tell Dean. He can’t bear to have another shit show between them both on trust — as if there isn’t enough under their belts already. But it’s just… It feels wrong to abandon the bird. 

_The bird._

Once again, it’s an internal reminder that it’s the bird that he is concerned about and something like shame flushes across his collarbone. 

Sam finds the eyedrops beside the sink, unscrewing the cap before he places his hand out before the silent Lucifer. “I have to move you so I can give you the eyedrops. My hand is right out before you,” he tells the bird, letting the side of his palm nudge against Lucifer’s legs to give him proof. But the bird is already lifting a leg before the hand can touch, feet soon walking across his palm as he carefully deposits the bird on the bathroom counter. 

“Just…hold still. I’m gonna start with the left, okay?” 

The sparrow chirps in response. It sits down and tilts its head, revealing the targeted eye to him. Pinning his tongue between his teeth, Sam squeezes the bottle, watching Lucifer blink and body shake when the drops made eye contact. It turns the other way and Sam repeats the process, watching the bird blink. He can see the gunk hovering under its eye, Sam placing the eye drop away. “I’m gonna…just clean you up a bit. Don’t freak out,” Sam warns, the bird remaining painfully still as Sam lets his thumb swipe the substance away with a graze.

Sam repeats the motion with the other eye, “So the vet said we need to do this every couple of hours and you should be good as new.” The sparrow pushes its head against Sam’s fingers in return, rubbing the top of its skull against the hunter’s fingers until Sam is giving in. He rubs the spot behind its head and the archangel is cooing, eyes closed and wings pinned to its side. “Oh…now you want attention,” he can’t help chuckling, not bothering to acknowledge the gravity of the issue before him. That the Devil is currently doing its best to have Sam scratch at a particularly itchy spot, rubbing the small of its back into his finger. 

“Are you done with proving you can take care of yourself spiel? Can I carry you now?” Sam asks and the bird continues to rub against Sam’s finger, pulling back to run the underside of its chin against the hunter’s blunt nail, “Save us both a lot of trouble.” Giving a satisfied sound, the brown-speckled sparrow lifts an expectant leg up. 

Lucifer latches onto Sam’s offered finger, being raised back to the sturdy perch of Sam’s shoulder. A beak picks at his hair, as if returning the favor. 

“Okay, okay, I get it. You’re welcome,” Sam huffs out in humor, watching the bird get temporarily lost in the sea of hair. 

The two return just on time, Dean making their plates and pointing at Sam’s. “This is yours. Uh, don’t know what the bird eats. But if he wants bacon, there’s bacon,” Dean acknowledges before he’s pointing a fork at Sam, “I can’t tell you how hilarious you look with that pipsqueak on your shoulder.” 

Lucifer gives an offended sound. Sam merely rolls his eyes and lets Lucifer down on the table, already earning a disapproving look from Dean. 

“For now, Dean. Let me just grab him something to eat,” Sam explains but Dean looks unconvinced. Grabbing Sam’s plate, he places it across of his own. 

Blueberries it’ll be for now until he can get proper food, but compared to last night, Lucifer is doing well. Certainly moving more than it did before, more vocal than before, already hearing it singing to the accompaniment of Dean groaning _too fucking early for this, please shut up._

The younger hunter witnesses Dean pushing bits of scrambled eggs to the rim of his plate, coaxing the bird to go ahead and try it. “Really, Dean? That’s twisted,” Sam heaves out when he rounds the table, placing down a small plate of the blueberries and water before the inquisitive sparrow. The bird eagerly hops on the rim of the bowl to drink the water, the younger hunter feeling a twist of guilt at his carelessness on not offering water before. 

“Oh come on, I’m eating here,” Dean complains when the bird hops in, ducking its head in the water and causing a growing mess around him. Sam can’t help but grin, watching the bird shake the water off and mercilessly attack the blueberries. 

He keeps his eyes trained the sparrow for a moment before he’s turning to his breakfast, giving a noncommittal hum when he takes a bite. Lucifer is busy trying to get a blueberry off its beak, beak having pierced the fruit. It’s enough to pull a snort in humor from Dean. 

Sam swallows his food and clears his throat. “You know about — uh — naming the bird?” Dean gives a nod around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. “He already has one.” 

Dean makes a motion with his hand, a gesticulating _and it is?_

“Lucifer.” 

Sam can only grimace as Dean chokes on his eggs and bacon.


	3. It's Called Being a Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not everyday you find out that Satan is your local sparrow.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

It didn’t take long for Dean to grab him, fingers so different than Sam’s. There’s an underlying threat of tension in each muscle of Dean’s fingers, explaining to Lucifer that it would take seconds to squeeze the life out of him. The closed in space and the overwhelming sensation of smallness causes the sparrow to instantly thrash.

The trapped archangel can only think, through the instinctual flare of panic, of how Sam’s fingers differed vastly in contrast to his brother’s.

He knew, when those fingers cradled him into a place of pumping warmth and parchment-scented rooms, that he found Sam. One doesn’t simply forget the stitched together callouses and skin of the being that completes you. There’s a gentle electrical charge that hums with life when they’re near, easing all his stiff joints and aches. Making him sink into a state of safety, where it’s difficult to lunge into twisted thoughts and worries.

It’s something akin to a miracle to end up right on Sam Winchester’s doorstep, even if he’s riddled with such a tiny and ineffective frame. He didn’t expect Sam to show him kindness when he discovered his identity. 

It must have been too good to be true for a reason because Sam is blurting out his identity to Dean over breakfast. While the archangel is certain the Colt no longer carries any bullets and Death’s ring has long been returned, he’s uncertain of whether he could survive a kick. 

In this tired state, one he has sunk into after crash-landing into Earth, he is nothing but a vulnerable archangel shoved in the guise of a sparrow. It’s not an image he prefers but these are matters he has no choice over, another one of his Father’s primordial jokes. It’s humiliating but Sam approaches him far more eagerly than he would in the image of Nick. 

Lucifer didn’t miss the change in expressions: from concern towards a little bird to terror towards the previous image of the Devil. 

This form, however, was far from a saving grace, all eyes on Dean who coughs out half-chewed bacon and egg. Lucifer chimes in with the awful hacking coughs, rightfully annoyed at being sold out. The archangel is giving an ugly trill, notes sour and mustering whatever retched sound this ungodly hellhole of a visage can create.

“Can you please stop?” Sam turns to Lucifer, irritation twisting across his face but there is apprehension and worry. It’s enough to ease Lucifer into quiet, disgruntled peeps of sound, returning with renewed vigor onto the blueberries. Lucifer has never had a need to eat but there’s a strange drive to gorge himself on the blueberries in his upset state.

Dean, finally, gives a hoarse laugh, moving a napkin to swipe at the lost-at-sea egg and bacon on the table. It’s interrupted with a shaky cough. Shaking his head, Dean rubs at his eyes with the back of his hands.

“That name…is…it’s perfect for that pipsqueak over there,” Dean chuckles, pointing his fork at the tiny sparrow that answers with an unamused sound. Dean thinks it’s nothing but a name and there is a swell of relief, enough to smooth down his flared feathers. “There’s a sense of humor in you after all, Sammy,” Dean snidely adds. Jabbing at his eggs, Dean returns back to eating and Sam is left looking considerably stunned. It’s a crisis averted, Lucifer explains through a series of notes. Sam doesn’t appear to understand.

“No, Dean, I mean… Look,” Sam is heaving out, already the sparrow hopping its way towards Sam’s wrist, “I…I meant what I said in the church. I want you to trust me and I’m not going to keep secrets from you.” Lucifer picks at the wrist of Sam’s flannel and tugs on it insistently. “This…this really is Lucifer. I know he looks like a bird — ”

Lucifer releases the material to give a baffled noise, but Sam continues on, shooting a worried look at him. 

“— but this morning I saw him. He looked just like Lucifer in his old vessel but when I kicked him out…he was back to being a bird,” Sam finishes, raising his voice over Lucifer’s continuous callings. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that has the archangel maneuvering himself from arms reach from Dean. The older hunter slowly places his utensils down, eyes narrowing in fixation as he stared Lucifer down. A hand goes lunging and Lucifer is two steps ahead, making a smooth jump and an ungainly flapping of wrecked wings. 

_“Dean! Hey — ”_

“Sam, grab him!” 

Dean’s voice fills the space, Lucifer landing sloppily on the ground. There’s a shuffling of chairs and feet, the sparrow hopping underneath the table.

“Dean — _wait, stop!_ That’s not — He’s pretty harmless right now!” 

The conversation isn’t much of a priority to the archangel, cocking its head to watch the feet moving around the table. Dean suddenly crouches down and Lucifer bites off the temptation to rush over and peck at his toes. That may ruin whatever strange truce he is currently holding with Sam Winchester — if it even is still in play at the moment. 

“I don’t give a shit how big or how small he is, he’s still the same ugly son of a bitch that needs to be put down,” Dean growls out and it’s directed at him. Giving a sudden turn, Lucifer hops farther away, hearing the rough scrape of a chair somewhere beside him. The world is becoming too loud. Too overpowering, making wings flutter in irritation as he focuses on a way to escape the scene. It’s easier when he’s at his true potential, able to turn the noise of the world all around him down. Able to hear the white noise of the Earth’s core humming and even now he can’t hear that familiar electrical hum between himself and Sam, drowned out by the chaos of arguments and heated sounds.

_“Gotcha!”_

Fingers suddenly grabbed him, pulling him up and he’s staring up at Sam. 

“Dean, just…give him to me,” Sam heaves out in annoyance, stretching his hands out but Dean shakes his head. “Where are you going to put him, Dean? The dungeon? It’s occupied,” Sam continues, shifting uncomfortably and it is only making a nervous tremor bud in the tiny sparrow. The confining space is sweltering and suffocating, desperate for space to move but Dean’s hands won’t budge. “Look, it’s smarter to have him here. I’d rather have him in the bunker than out there in the open — ”

It’s infuriating how tiny he is. Infuriating how trapped he is — how small he feels. There’s a heart beating rapidly against the insides of this cage of bones and feathers. When it becomes too much, too self aware of each thump does he begin to thrash, the sensation escalating into panic. 

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Sam!” Dean’s voice is pushing through the cascading sound of his own innards, “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation! This isn’t just anyone. This is Satan!” 

“Dean, just let him go! I think it’s smarter to have him here than out there with demons like Abaddon!” 

“Are you serious? What makes you think this isn’t some trick?” Dean’s exclaiming, making a motion with his head to the fidgeting bird. “You really think this isn’t some broken wing bullshit? If only you let me in I can be good as new and help you out, crap?” The words fall easily out of his mouth and Sam misses the way Dean’s face suddenly falls, a dark epiphany tracing his brows and jaw tightening before it fades into annoyance. Sam’s fixated on Lucifer, already moving forward as if to gently pry Dean’s fingers off of him. But instead he only hovers, giving a worrying look at the sparrow’s terrified hiccups of sound.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice, giving an uncomfortable look at Sam, “I’m confused, Sam. I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

Sam finally turns away from the sparrow, relieved at the new change in beat in the conversation. “Look, the past couple of months with us sucked, Dean. I felt like all we did when you came back was fight and go behind each other’s backs,” he begins, dropping his voice to a low and soothing exhale of words, more out of Lucifer’s benefit than Dean’s. He can hear the hiccups die down but a quick glance down tells him the thrashing is only increasing, dark eyes staring up at him. “When we weren’t fighting we might as well be miles apart. I…I don’t want that. I want you to trust me and I get that if… That I’m not doing my part if I keep things from you. You’re my brother, Dean, and I want to make this work.” 

Dean sucks in the air around him before he’s hissing out a curse, Lucifer finally pecking at Dean’s fingers amidst his thrashing. As much as he has restrained himself from hurting Dean, for Sam’s benefit, he can’t bear to remain confined any longer. Swearing, Dean drops the bird out of reflex, another ungainly fall onto the floor. There’s a soft thud and Dean sucks on his abused finger, earning a dark look from Sam.

“He can’t fly, Dean!” Sam scowls, already crouching down to pick up Lucifer. Both brothers stare down at the peppered brown and black sparrow on the floor that doesn’t appear to be moving or will be any time soon. 

“I guess we can keep him now,” Dean attempts in trying humor, suddenly looking out-of-place and lost at the entirety of this morning’s events. As much as Sam knows his brother means well, he can’t help but shoot him a withering look

The bird, finally, gives a tiring sound when fingers nudge at it, a wing stretching before whacking at Sam’s fingers. Dean gives a sound in relief before he’s moving to the table, grabbing the bowl of water and placing it on the floor. Sam mumbles a thank you and helps Lucifer slowly make his way to the bowl. 

“Sam, I’m — ”

“It’s okay, Dean. You…” Sam shakes his head, giving a shaky exhale, “I would have done the exact same thing. I guess…I forgot, for a moment, that…what Lucifer is. He may look like a bird but that’s not what he really is.” Dean crouches down with Sam, both watching the sparrow ungracefully dunk its head in the water. 

“Thanks for…being upfront with me,” Dean mumbles, glancing up at his brother to catch his lips pulling into a smile, "As much as I'd like shove him in a box, you got a point. It's safer for us if he's here and maybe it'll give us an advantage. If this is your call, than okay, I'll back you up." Sam nods and turns back to the bird, giving a concerned look at the odd twist of one of Lucifer's legs. The archangel can only tilt his head, watching Dean's face fall into guilt and the bird doubts it's over his leg. 

The two hunters spend the next half hour tending to the disgruntled sparrow, giving out a list of grievances to the boys that fail to be comprehended. His mood only continues to sour as the day progresses.

Lucifer is nothing but royally annoyed when he ends up being swallowed in a blanket after bandaging his leg, head peeking out and stuck between both of the hunters on a couch. The TV is on and the two brothers are laughing over something happening on the screen, somehow managing to turn this morning’s fiasco into a moment of bonding and clarification. Lucifer’s not annoyed at his injury. Not annoyed at his placement in this sea of fabric. He’s annoyed that he can’t understand why the two brothers are enjoying each other’s presence when they should be at each other’s necks. 

His angry asides translated into watery peeps, only silenced when Sam would rub at the spot behind his head. It's the only gesture he can understand amongst all of his confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me more!_


	4. What's Dead Should Stay Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It seems Lucifer has overstayed his welcome.'
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge gap in updating this bad boy! ); Forgive me!

Sam finds Lucifer in the library, slumped in an armchair and babying his leg. It’s three in the morning and Lucifer has been confined to the space by the library when it comes to sleep, no longer allowed to curl up in Sam’s bedroom despite the bird’s angry protesting filling the bunker at night. There’s a thick blanket thrown over his bare shoulders and fingers massaging the sore leg from a week before when Dean found out a bird about the size of his fist happened to be the Devil.

In the late hours of night to the early hours of morning, Sam would peek his head out and find Lucifer: whole, looking like his previous vessel and terribly drowsy. He’d sway and struggle to keep himself awake, but it’s a futile effort, falling back to sleep immediately in the form of a little bird. Sam would sigh to himself and scoop the snoozing bird from where he’s managed to wander off, placing him back on the makeshift bed. 

Sam doesn’t know why he feels a pressing need to check up on Lucifer routinely and he has no interest in delving deeper into that thought. 

Sam tucks himself into the corner, watching the blond grimace before his hands grip onto the armrests. With a grunt, he shakily pushes himself up for the first time. The hunter can feel his neck burn; in his unannounced spying, he briefly forgot that Lucifer tended to be vividly naked in these odd hours where he’s no longer a sparrow. Sam turns his eyes away after a lingering moment, internally scowling at himself as he listens to the archangel’s laborious shuffling. 

He should offer to help, but whether it’s the unease to help this familiar form of Lucifer or to keep himself observing from afar, he remains put. Sam turns his eyes back on Lucifer, expecting to see him making his way deeper into the library but instead he’s making his way to the kitchen. The blond managed to yank the blanket with him on his slow journey, keeping it over his shoulders as he wearily moves forward. 

Sam can see flesh blooming in bright colors under his skin, already the hues gnawing through flesh as if this alone was too much exertion on Lucifer’s frame. It’s his damaged leg that coils and curls in deeper shades, his limping becoming more and more distinct. But the archangel tires on, grasping on the countertop and resting against it. 

The Devil reaches out to the cabinets, hands carefully pulling out a plastic bowl. The blanket slides off at the motion and he turns to look at it, as if considering the amount of energy it would take to crouch down and pluck it off the floor. Lucifer moves his fingers to pull at the drawers near him, plucking a steak knife, abandoning the blanket. Sam’s gut twists, beginning to see what these tools can lead to. He should intervene. Waltz on in and feign curiosity as to why Lucifer is awake or marvel that he is whole for this brief moment in time, again. He should avert this potential danger but Sam can only stare. 

Lucifer is the personification of deterioration and decay right before his eyes and it’s a horrifying sight. Pricks of color growing across his skin before splitting open and the damaged leg was a grotesque display of opening flesh. The obsession with roses takes to new heights as the blooming wounds shared a striking resemblance with the flower. Sam’s not quite sure Lucifer will get to utter out a sentence to whoever it may be at this rate. In stunned and morbid curiosity, he can only remain part of the audience. 

It’s only when Lucifer is still, collapsing on one of the kitchen chairs does the deterioration slow down. The Devil tiredly cuts into his hand with the knife, dripping blood into the plastic bowl as he mumbles something low. It’s far from Latin from what Sam can grasp — perhaps Enochian? There’s a harsh tang of ozone and electricity driving down his throat when he takes a breath, the air suddenly static. Sam bites down a choked sound in surprise, giving a harsh swallow of whatever it is that is suddenly smothering the atmosphere. He can feel a familiar burn inside, an old flare of heat he once felt when true vessel and archangel melded together. An ancient and primordial sense of power and union that makes Sam tremble in surprise.

When Lucifer is finished and the tang of electricity fades, he dips his hand into the bowl and rubs the blood across the damaged leg. Sam is left felt the fading of that feeling and carrying the strange sensation of loss.

Sam’s confused. Frowning and fidgeting from his stop as he watches skin begin to patch itself, but it is the leg that shows miraculous and fast healing. Blood drags across wounded flesh and in its place is new flesh, the red stain of blood gone. This was for his leg all along? A red palm laboriously rubs into the abused flesh and muscles. Even from Sam’s poor angle of the side of Lucifer, he can see his eyes fluttering to a close, the archangel struggling to stay awake. There’s a defiant growl in frustration before he slumps back into the chair, head lolling forward and hand sliding off his thigh. 

The hunter makes a soft noise in his throat, unsure of whether he should sit and wait, leave or do something. Rubbing at his brow, he doesn’t realize he’s already crossed towards him until he can smell pine, myrrh and blood off of the blond. Heat has returned to his neck, creeping up to his cheeks at the fact he’s — once again — too close for comfort to a naked Lucifer. 

“Lucifer…?” Sam whispers, hesitantly hovering around him but all Sam can hear is soft breathing from the archangel’s mouth. Working his jaw in thought, he grabbed the bowl on the table and let his fingers slip into the blood. There isn’t much left but he crouches down and rubs it into the targeted leg. At his touch skin repairs, greedily taking in the blood and replacing the red-coated surface with clean flesh. He diligently keeps his eyes on his work, not daring to look elsewhere, already feeling he’s been kicked with a fever. 

Lucifer’s flesh is repairing and there are no bruises of saturated purples and reds on his leg. Despite the heated embarrassment of dealing with Lucifer in the state he is, he can’t help but find this marvelous. He’s never seen skin stitch together so quickly and while Lucifer’s body struggled to repair itself, Lucifer’s thigh was anew. Bloodied fingers slide across lukewarm and smooth flesh, feeling the hardness of muscle transition to the softness of his inner thighs. 

A cool and far off drawl breaks through his concentration, Sam nearly stumbling back on his backside at the sudden interruption: “Doesn’t the story goes that Christ washed his disciples’ feet? Now what will they say of this, I wonder?”

Pallid eyes stare down at Sam with hooded lids, Sam swears he can see the bright pinpricks of light under blond lashes that tells Sam there’s very much an otherworldly figure sitting behind skin. Sam licks his lips and draws his hand back, shooting an annoyed look at the blond for good measure. 

“What’s this? Why is this… How are you like this?” Sam counters, quickly getting on his feet and placing the bowl back on the table. Lucifer’s cheek is busy healing and Sam can’t stop staring at it, bumping into a nearby chair before masking it with picking the fallen blanket off the floor. 

Lucifer takes a deep breath and frowns, as if breathing was an incredible disservice at the moment. 

“Nothing is free, Sam Winchester. You must give a little to gain a little. My leg is not healing properly for some…” Lucifer begins lowly but fades off, head nodding froward before shaking himself awake. “Something is amiss but I need to speed up the process at least for the leg… It hurts to walk and if I take…from other unimportant body parts to parts that need quick repair…” Lucifer mumbles, sniffing idly as he waves his fingers to finish off the sentence. 

Sam can only blink in thought, holding onto the blanket and giving a hum in somewhat understanding. “You’re bartering with your own body… You’re making your own deals.” Sam comments and the Devil’s lips only twitch into a semblance of a smile. “What did you barter?” 

“Kidney for repaired muscle damage in the thigh. Just spilled milk, Sam….” Lucifer assures and Sam has a hunch he thinks the entirety of the frame he’s wearing is nothing but expendable. He can’t help but remember the lack of care for his vessel a handful of years back. Before he can admonish Lucifer and deem it reckless, Lucifer has slipped back into sleep with a sigh. 

Answering with his own heavy sigh and laying the blanket over the blond, Sam moves to clean up. He can’t have Lucifer sleep on the chair and the library seemed to have lost its appeal as habitable when Lucifer can’t fit into a bed the size of a shoebox. Gnashing his teeth, he glances behind him, still at a loss at what is going on. Why was he so weak? Did Metraton’s banishing all angels from Heaven have this side effect for all angels? Why a bird? There’s new questions popping after another, leaving Sam antsy and washing the bowl clean until the sponge begins to wear at his furious scrubbing. 

What he does know is that Lucifer needs a bigger bed, at least until the rest of his body finishes repairing itself. 

“This is a bad idea, Sam,” the hunter lectured himself as he peeled himself away from the sink, turning around to find the Devil gone from his seat. 

There’s a flare of panic as he stares at the blanket over the chair, rushing over to pluck it up. Sam heaves in relief when he finds a little sparrow underneath the fabric. Scooping the bird up, Sam moves to his room, hissing and shushing his conscience wagging its metaphorical finger at him. Lucifer is back to being a sparrow, he can sleep in the small bed in the library. He doesn’t need a bed anymore but Sam only rushes to his room as if he could outrace the concern. 

_This is unwise, Sam. Deposit him in the box that is his bed._

“Just for tonight,” he huffs out into the safety of his room, placing the, now, snoring sparrow onto the pillow. To appease his battling conscience, he sticks a pillow between them both, willing himself to sleep to avoid his worrisome thoughts. 

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— ——

Sam wakes to a body next to him, arms and toes brushing against each other. Sam’s not sure where the pillow that acted as a divider went. Probably tossed on the floor because the hunter is staring at the Devil’s face buried in half of his pillow and hogging the blankets. 

“You did me a great favor last night, Sam,” Lucifer is the first to break the silence, voice rough with sleep, “Thank you.” Sam doesn’t know what to say — what to do. He can only give an affirmative grunt but is at a loss on how to begin this conversation. The archangel gives a soft laugh and closes his eyes, “You should ask now before I turn back.” _This_ is part of the reason why Sam doesn’t want to pick at his own actions. Why he doesn’t want to think too deeply as to why there’s that lingering coil of concern. It’s because of this: Lucifer always seeming to understand what’s raging inside Sam’s skull. Sometimes that understanding between them terrifies the hunter. 

“Why a bird?” 

Lucifer blinks and his brows knit together as if the question was momentarily amusing and baffling all at once. Sam goes to clarify, face contorting into embarrassment but Lucifer shakes his head in understanding. “When we are in great times of weakness, sometimes it is wiser we choose other forms of Creation to possess. It’s a way to protect ourselves, reserve our strength and blend in,” he begins carefully, as if even that is a concept rather delicate and close to impossible in explanation, “I am very tired, Sam. I don’t have the energy to find a vessel. All you are seeing now is just an aftermath of what my Grace once bonded with. Bones and flesh scrapped together from what still remains of Nick…which is very little. I’m grateful they did not cremate Nick, for it’s difficult to assemble dust when so weak.” 

Sam sits up, watching the archangel nonchalantly take the remainder of his comforter. This explains why Lucifer deteriorated so quickly when using too much energy, all the parts and pieces were already decayed. “So…zombie Lucifer?” Sam asks carefully. 

The archangel blinks before lips twist ever so in humor, “You will tell me when my body begins to stink of putrid flesh, yes?” 

Sam help but grin, giving a nod, “Yeah. I can do that. So…last night…”

The blond licks his chapped lips, his own brows furrowing in thought before admitting quietly, “My Grace is…damaged.” Sam shifts nervously on the bed, a sinking and yet elated feeling that it’s his doing. If Lucifer’s Grace is damaged, he’s a nuclear reactor under construction and stuck so, and isn’t that a plus? No replay of the Apocalypse or reclaiming of his crown, right? That’s a good thing. But how did it get damaged? Metatron’s spell? Something else? “I can’t recuperate by myself, so I have to repair myself through Nick. I’ve done it before when I wore Nick, when my Grace was doing more damage than good. Barter and move certain strengths in his body to places in need… It’s not…a healthy mode of repair,” he explains plainly and Sam nods in understanding. You can only give and use so much before you run out of expendable body parts. 

But Sam wants to know why a sparrow. Why not something more like a feline? Or a bird with brighter colors? Something more distinguishable than a common sparrow? Why a mangled sparrow? Why is it at this moment Lucifer’s skin looks unmarred? 

“Why a sparrow?” 

Lucifer turns away from him, shifting on his back and closing his eyes. There’s something angry swimming in his voice that’s heated and subtle, “Because it’s the only creature made available to me. I get scraps. I’m not privy to my Father’s Creation anymore, Sam. It’s very foreign to me.” 

“So like Paradise Lost…” Sam finds himself rushing out in awe, lips twitching into a smile at his own connection.

Lucifer frowns gently, as if he doesn’t take kindly to being referred to a fictional work. 

“I mean… You know, Lucifer sees God’s Creation after the Fall and it’s more beautiful to him from his new viewpoint but he can’t…connect with it —” Sam clarifies but he can see the small shifts in muscles across the archangel’s face before there’s a flash of hurt, “ — Shit. Sorry.” The hunter groans in disbelief at himself, staring at a, now, upset sparrow burying itself into his pillow.

Sam reaches out tentatively to rub the spot behind the sparrow’s head, “Lucifer…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to — _Hey_!” Lucifer snapped at his finger, barely missing it by an inch, body puffed and chirping angrily from his spot on the pillow. “You know what, whatever,” Sam grumbles and leaves the bed, making his way to the door. 

“I’m going to make breakfast. If you want it, you know where to go,” Sam tersely announces as he leaves the room, leaving to the sound of the archangel calling out to him. 

It takes less than five minutes before Lucifer is hopping out of the room, making angry little peeping noises around Sam’s feet. Petulant little angel circling around his feet as he walks throughout the kitchen. Sam just frowns and ignores Lucifer. 

“I think he wants your attention, Sam,” Dean addresses through a mouthful of cereal, pointing his spoon down at Sam’s feet. 

“He can get it when he apologizes,” Sam retorts, taking a seat at the table with his matching bowl of cereal and coffee. Dean shoots Sam a look of concern, but the younger hunter just shakes his head in reassurance. “Anyways, I think I found us a job in Oregon last night,” Sam begins nonchalantly, feeling a tugging on his sweats that climbs up his calf. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, so in Seneca there has been a couple of cases of people coming into the hospital vomiting blood and apparently paranoid to the point they had to be sedated. Get this, each victim had the same markings on their chest — as if something pierced right through them,” Sam explains, ignoring Lucifer who is making the long trek across his chest, pulling itself up with his feet and beak. 

“ _Okay_ …sounds familiar, what else is there?” Dean asks, glaring at Lucifer over his cup of coffee. 

“All of the vic’s families stated that they were all fine but began to show signs of paranoia after visiting some local hiking trail. It sounds like a Buruburu,” Sam finishes, fighting off a chuckle at feathers ticking his neck. There’s a beak tugging and picking at his hair, Dean giving a disgruntled sound more at the sparrow than the news of a Buruburu. 

Dean clears his throat loudly, placing his cup of coffee down, “Awesome. Ghost sickness. Like that was a real blast last time we dealt with them — okay, what the hell is he doing now?” He jabs an accusing finger at Lucifer. 

Sam finally laughs, Lucifer flapping his wings anxiously when he finds himself trapped in Sam’s hair. “He’s saying sorry and I accept,” the hunter weasels his fingers around the bird, helping him out of his hair before he feels legs latching onto his finger. Carefully he moves Lucifer onto the table where he flares his wings out at Dean’s disapproving look, Dean giving a huffed sound in insult. Sam moves to go grab Lucifer’s breakfast as he gloats and sings under Dean’s dissatisfaction. 

“Dude, you’re getting too soft with this _little shit_ ,” the older sibling bites out, directing it to Lucifer and tempted to flick his cereal at the smug bird. “I’m going to cook you, you hear?” Dean whispers out menacingly when Sam turns his back to the two of them. 

Gadreel washes the blueberries under the sink, illuminated eyes staring down at the dark fruit and shoulders stiff. Dean was right and it rang as a pressing concern to the angel’s ears. Having the Devil close to its true vessel is a threat but for Sam to show signs of care and concern for its wellbeing? That did not sit well with the younger angel.

It seems Lucifer has overstayed his welcome.


	5. At Your Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good things never last forever.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I keep the wolf from the door, but he calls me up_  
>  _Calls me on the phone, tells me all the ways that he's gonna mess me up..._  
>  \- Radiohead

Lucifer enjoys the moments where he’s too tired to move and dozing off. Sam will scoop him up into his cupped hands and move him to the bed, ignoring Dean’s balking and grumbling in discontent. There he’ll sleep to the warmth of the pillow and wake to the warmth of blankets and body heat from the hunter. Despite the closeness due to daily care, their conversations still remain brief. It’s difficult for Lucifer to keep the flow of the conversation when he’s nodding off, yawning and missing portions of the questions being asked. 

The conversations seem to always revolve around the process and the fluctuation of Grace. He thinks Sam’s more interested in concept of angels when weak and birds than himself, but Lucifer enjoys the attention.

It shouldn’t be like this — at least not expanding onto weeks. This was a form he should only need for one week, at maximum, especially with being so near to his true vessel. Sam was meant to help speed up his healing process, near a source of energy that he can feed off of without leaving Sam with the consequences of weariness and fatigue. Yet Sam produces so little incentive to his weak frame and, despite his pleasure in this slow mend to their relationship, there is a gap between them. 

Something is wrong and Lucifer is unsure of how to deal with it. 

The archangel stares at Sam from its perch on the bed, wings stretching before folding neatly against his sides. Leaving a sleeping Sam in bed, he scales down the drooping blankets onto the floor and hops over to the closed door. Chirping at his coming discomfort, he makes himself flat on the floor and squeezes through the nearly-too-tight gap under the door. It pushes a grumpy peep out of him, having to squirm and wiggle until he slips out. 

He has begun to get up earlier in the mornings. Lately his thoughts burn and walk like hallucinations when he is sleeping, leaving him to wake in a cold sweat in the early hours of the day. They are strange and vivid, not quite able to stomach the concept of experiencing dreaming. The archangel mentioned it briefly one morning to Sam and each night Sam would leave water and bird feed in bowls by the kitchen for the early riser. Grateful, he makes his way to the water, ending up sitting in it with a yawn. 

Lucifer’s not the only early riser, often accompanied by the prophet the Winchesters are keeping. The archangel is wary of the prophet, unsure if being near him would trigger an another archangel to fly to the rescue. So Lucifer lets his wings flutter in the water, dipping his head into the surface when he hears Kevin shuffling in, as if proving he is harmless. 

The prophet is so terribly young, but it was nearly humorous to see the same traits of weariness and questionable self-care dragging his shoulders down that the archangel has noticed in past prophets. 

Kevin notices him after he’s placing a new coffee filter into the coffeemaker, grunting at its presence that Lucifer answers with a wary burp of noise. The prophet takes a seat, his breakfast consisting of shoving his hand into the cereal box of Fruit Loops and drinking coffee black. He can’t help but watch Lucifer, always transfixed at how bizarre this all is.

Kevin eyes the sparrow that’s staring back at him, wings fluttering nervously. It’s still too early in the morning for the Winchesters to be up, but Kevin walked through the bunker with insomnia and a self-diagnosed caffeine withdrawal disorder. Time was irrelevant, giving up on kicking himself when he turns to the clock to find it four in the morning. But lately he’s been having the Devil as his morning guest, Lucifer often hopping about in exploration. It’s only been twice that he’s seen the six foot archangel, prowling about and a bit too naked for his liking. 

Starting off your morning by catching an eyeful of the Devil’s ass shouldn’t ever be an occurring or reoccurring incident, in Kevin’s book.

Today the sparrow eyes him warily, Kevin hunched over the table and cradling his cup of coffee. It’s funny to think this little thing really is Lucifer in the flesh. The bird gives an offended sound, Kevin’s brows arching. “You can read my mind or are you just grumpy?” Kevin asks. The bird gives an extra helping of offense in the chattering noise it gives, turning around to display its tail.

“Woah, got it. Don’t need to speak bird to know you’re pissed,” Kevin chuckles, dry in the pit of the notes from sleep deprivation and disuse. 

The bunker has proved to be a hub of knowledge about the supernatural, and with Lucifer now a temporary guest in the bunker, he’s focused his research elsewhere. The lore on the Devil is profuse, more than one bookshelf dedicated to the numerous of dusty tomes, texts, reports and references to the fallen archangel. But one stood out to him, a curious little snippet that now had him wondering. 

Fishing through his hoodie’s pouch, he pulls out his phone, Lucifer hopping forward to look at the device in curiosity. It gives an insistent chirp when being at ground level makes it hard for him to view it. Kevin goes through his phone, turns up the volume and places it down on the table.

He offers his hand and Lucifer’s wings are suddenly out, giving an indigent sound. “Uh…how are you going to get up than?” Kevin asks and the archangel stares at his surroundings before climbing up his pajama pants. The prophet winces at the pinpricks of talons but keeps still until Lucifer has successfully tumbled onto the table. Kevin reaches over and taps his phone.

The bird starts when music comes pouring out, wings flaring before settling, cocking its head. 

_“Mama, take this badge off of me. I can’t use it anymore...”_

The bird shudders, gives a curious little sound, stretching its neck as if it’s trying to look at the phone’s screen. 

_“It’s gettin’ dark, too dark to see. I feel I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door.”_

The sparrow opens its mouth and sings along to the chorus, each note struck perfectly. Kevin can’t help but grin, watching the little bird sing as if it’s known the tune all along. Kevin stops the song and gives out a rushed, “Wow, that’s really good.” Lucifer’s chest puffs out and seems to beam with pride, a falsetto trill leaving its beak. 

Kevin fiddles with the phone before playing another song, “Okay, let’s try something a bit more obscure. Something I know Sam and, I think, whatever else you’ve been riding wouldn’t know.” Lucifer makes a sound but shifts anxiously on his feet. 

_“William, just take your toys from me. I’m not so interested in playing with you.”_

Lucifer is quick to come in with the singer, wings fluttering when the little bird had to hold the note. Kevin is grinning stupidly and grabbing at his phone turning it off, Lucifer putting about before picking at the cereal box. If the prophet is going to make him sing, he should at least be given something for his troubles. 

“Oh… No, no, no. Sam said I shouldn’t splurge you on human food or the blueberries,” the dark-haired youth reminded and Lucifer responded with an annoyed sound. The sparrow turns and begins to make its way far from the phone, as if to leave. “Wait, wait, okay! Blueberries! Just a few, okay?” Kevin calls out, rushing out of his chair to the fridge. Lucifer chirps happily and waits till a handful of wet blueberries are sitting before him. 

“Okay so can you…can I give you a lyric, without the music at all, and can you sing the next line to me?” the prophet asks. Lucifer picks apart a blueberry and makes a cursory noise. Kevin is going to assume that means ‘yes’ in bird. He moves his hands, elbows resting on the table, “Okay, just…don’t make fun of me. I’m just trying to figure this out. Okay. Here it goes: ‘We can get down like there’s no one around, we keep on rocking.’ 

Britney Spears comes chirping back and Kevin’s all grins. The archangel cheerfully basks in the praise and blueberries being handed to him, greedily sticking its beak into it. 

“I just made the Devil sing Britney Spears,” the prophet chuckles to himself.

Sam walks in an hour later to blueberry remains on Lucifer’s face and coating his beak, giving a cheerful trill as it walks across the table closer to him. 

“Uh…Kevin — ?” the hunter begins questionably, running a hand through his hair.

“Sam! So you do know he’s a song sparrow, right?” Kevin shoves his hand in the box of cereal, tilting his head back a bit to get all the fruit loops into his mouth. 

Sam arches his brow and gives an amused look at Kevin’s display before moving over to the sink, getting a paper towel wet. “Song sparrow?” the hunter questions back.

“Yeah, they’re pretty well-known for their singing. This guy here is really into Britney Spears — oh, and he knows every song there is and can sing it back to you. I swear. I tried from popular stuff to, you know, underground indie that’s so obscure that the bands are named after ingredients in Motrin,” Kevin explains, fiddling a bit with his phone, “He knows all of them! Pretty much like Pandora without the annoying commercials…”

Lucifer chatters at Kevin before dipping its head to pick at something on his wing. “Almost without the annoying commercials… Almost,” Kevin mumbles through a mouthful of cereal.

The brunette crouches down and carefully cleans Lucifer’s beak and face, dabbing the peeping bird with the damp cloth. “You like Britney Spears?” Sam chuckles to the bird, who gives a sound and puffs its chest out indignantly. Sam lets his finger move to rub at the fluffed up chest, Lucifer deflating and moving so Sam can rub at the spot behind his head. 

Kevin stares at the two of them, sipping on his third cup of coffee before clearing his throat loudly. 

Sam moves his hand to scratch at the back of his own head, making a beeline to the coffee with a grunt. “So….ah…how’s work going so far? Any plans for today?” Kevin twists his head a bit to eye the side of Sam’s face, who is staring at the pot of coffee as if it just caught him doing something shameful. The prophet gives a knowing look, turning it to Lucifer who is cocking its head at him.

“Same old, same old. What about you? Got something planned… Something special,” Kevin sniffs idly, taking a noisy sip from his coffee. Lucifer puffs at Kevin, as if it can pick at his train of thought before the bird is chasing after Sam across the surface of the table. Sam settles his mug down and a gallon of milk, pulling the box of cereal out of Kevin’s reach. 

Sam gives a nod, pouring cereal into the bowl. “Yeah, I have to work on this one’s wings. I read somewhere that it’s best you always make sure to exercise them, even if they can’t be used. Good for building and sustaining muscle,” the hunter replies, picking up the milk as he watches Lucifer hop near the side of the bowl. “Maybe we can get you to fly again, hmm?” Sam smiles, the sparrow giving out a pleased chirp in response. 

“Gross, you two get a room.”

Dean’s voice interjects and Kevin gives an overly loud sigh in relief, earning a snort from Sam. “Hey, at least I’m doing something and not holing myself watching every season of Breaking Bad,” Sam teases, watching his brother scowl and shake his head.

“There is _nothing_ shameful about that. I should be rewarded for it, right, Kevin?” 

“Dean has a point, Sam,” Kevin nods solemnly. 

Breakfast ends on a debate on which TV show is better before the three part their ways, Dean pretty certain he won that debate. Sam lets Lucifer perch on his shoulder, leading them back to his room. “Okay, so we have to exercise your wings a little,” Sam announces as he walks into his room, carefully sitting down, feeling Lucifer’s grip on his shoulder tighten. 

Crossing his legs, he moves his hand towards Lucifer so he can step onto his palm. “So, what I’m going to do is have you step onto my finger and than I’ll move you. I guess that’s how you do it? Exercise?” Sam explains before it falls into questions, looking at Lucifer for approval. It’s difficult when Lucifer as the image of Nick is expressive and fluid with his hand gestures, but as a sparrow he’s only given the changes in chirps and marveling out how Lucifer can expand himself by letting each feather stand out. 

Sam can only assume Lucifer is bobbing his head in affirmation and not in annoyance. 

The sparrow steps off Sam’s hand and walks in a small circle before waiting for Sam. Sam offers his finger, Lucifer moving to step onto it. Lucifer fidgets when Sam’s finger rises, wings stretching out, damaged primaries and shredded wings displayed. When Sam moves him down, the sparrow is flapping its wings, as if to prevent its descent. Sam doesn't realize how mauled Lucifer's feathers are. They're ragged and the underside looks dry -- as if the feathers are brittle. Sam catches himself before he could wince at the sight. His confidence on Lucifer being able to fly diminishes as he watches frayed feathers move through the air.

“Yeah, just like that! Good,” Sam praises, keeping his smile plastered on his face, repeating the motion until Lucifer can feel a tired ache around the joints in just moments. The bird chirps at Sam and the hunter gently eases him back onto the floor. “Quite the workout, huh?” Sam’s finger is already rubbing at the spot behind his head, the little sparrow letting its eyes close and bask in the touch. It’s a bit of a marvel to watch Sam’s worn and scarred hand treating the sparrow with a sense of fragility and delicacy. A hand that can crush Lucifer altogether is busy smoothing down any ruffled feathers from the exercise.

“Want to break a few rules and go outside for a bit?” 

Lucifer gives a chirp and already is sticking its leg out, waiting for Sam to offer his hand. Soon settling on Sam’s right shoulder, the two make their way towards the exit of the bunker. It is a bit strange, Sam garners, that he’s been working his entire schedule around caring for the little bird settling on his shoulder. Perhaps even stranger he’s okay with letting Lucifer have room and board in his bed. While the two remain rather separate despite the close quarters, remaining on their spots on the bed, there’s no hiding the level of intimacy in distance. 

Dean is under the assumption Lucifer has a sleeping bag and a spot on the floor, and Sam never bothered to correct him. 

It felt less like housing the Devil and more like housing an old, familiar limb. The threat of the Apocalypse and playing dictated roles is such a faraway concept, and now all Sam can see is a missing arm being returned. Sometimes it’s a struggle to describe the sensation, where it’s not quite the sensation of exhilaration or comfort, but familiarity. The back of his hands. A soft rock station that sets him to sleep. The cabin in Flagstaff. 

Lucifer’s singing next to his ear, wings stretching and smacking the side of his neck when they get outside. “Okay, okay, hold on, I hear you,” Sam laughs, helping the miniature bird to the ground where it’s instantly hopping about on the soil. He watches the song sparrow exploring the space around Sam, picking at the ground a bit before hopping to a new spot. “Enjoying the new texture? Beats the bunker’s floor, huh?” 

The sparrow answers with a falsetto sound. Rolling his shoulders, Sam takes a seat, sharing Lucifer’s excitement at the new environment. As familiar as Lucifer’s presence may be, there still is a topic that always seems to make him shift in discomfort. 

The Cage. 

No matter how many years may pass since his time spent in the Cage, it still looms over him, always managing to dredge up a wild fear. 

“I have a question…” Sam breaks the late morning peace, listening to the far off chatter of other birds. Lucifer turns towards him and sits, burrowing itself into the clump of grass it has trampled on. “You said your Grace was damaged… Was it because of the Cage? Me? Both? Or just…something else?” Sam asks and the bird gives a sound, left wing stretching before folding back in. 

“I guess the reason I’m asking now is…because a part of me doesn’t want to know,” he confesses gently; he rather hear chirps than concrete words. “Just wondering if maybe…you went through the same thing I went through,” Sam drops his hand and picks at the grass next to him, “You know — I don’t know if you can tell — but my soul isn’t…” Sam drops the grass in his hand in opt for scratching the top of his head, pulling his body forward so he’s closer to his bent knees. 

“It’s…it’s not exactly pretty,” Sam mumbles, before the half of his mouth is pulling up into a smile, laughing, “Uh…it’s pretty bent out of shape. I thought that maybe if I keep on…giving up more of me, it’ll get…” Sam works his jaw and shakes his head, “Nevermind. Don’t know why I brought this up.” He lays down and lets his fingers pick at the dirt until he feels a little head nudge at the side of his right palm. Sam moves his gaze to find Lucifer rubbing his cheek against the side of his hand. He’s chirping something to him and Sam imagines it’s something reassuring. 

The sparrow climbs onto him, walking across his chest until he’s butting his head into the hollow of Sam’s throat. It instantly makes Sam laugh before he feels a beak picking at his facial hair, as if preening the hunter. He lets Lucifer work in silence before the bird gives an exhausted sound. “Still tired?” Sam chuckles, earning a garbled noise by the bird under his chin before he’s sitting on his collarbone. 

Closing his eyes, he lets them lay their till the afternoon heat begins to make the inside of his knees sweat. The day is spent with Kevin showcasing Lucifer’s talents to the two boys, even garnering a _shit, that’s cool_ by Dean, to the little bird napping on top of Kevin’s phone. 

“Do you ever, you know, think about what’s going to happen when Lucifer is back on his ‘A’ game?” Dean asks in the kitchen, preparing dinner as Sam fiddles with his laptop on the table. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I remember Lucifer shoving his hand through a god’s chest,” the older brother adds, waving the knife in his hand around a bit, “Just sayin’. I remember guts, blood and really bad one-liners.” 

Sam sighs and leans back into his chair, tapping his finger on the table. “I mean, the Apocalypse is kind of impossible. Lucifer doesn’t have his army. He doesn’t have Hell. Heaven isn’t around to sponsor Michael. The Horsemen don’t have their rings except for Death. I just… I think that’s a chapter that’s done,” Sam goes off, a bit hesitant and forming the thoughts off his tongue as he continued on. Dean looks unconvinced as he chops into the carrot on the cutting board. 

The younger sibling adds on the spur of the moment, “He said his Grace was damaged. So…” 

That eased a few lines of stress, Dean giving a nod, “Well that’s good to hear. I’d just be careful, Sam. He’s a friggen archangel, not some pet.” 

The conversation sits unwell in Sam’s stomach even after it ends, Lucifer noticing the discomfort when he eats his dinner of bird seed, raspberries and blueberries. The archangel grabs a blueberry and awkwardly walks over to Sam’s spot on the table, dropping it next to his plate and giving an encouraging chirp. Sam gives a deflating exhalation and gives in, giving a brief smile and eating the offered blueberry. 

Familiarity. 

It makes Sam hum to himself, settling back into that pleasant mood the day began with. Sam burrows himself into his sheets when the day closes to an end, Lucifer already settled on his pillow with his head tucked under his wing. Turning his back to the little bird as he turns the lights off, sleep hits him too soon. Hidden fingers pull his eyelids down and thread through his brain waves with its own brand of medicine, pushing Sam into a deep sleep. 

As always, it is Lucifer to wake first. But it’s not the start of a new day that wakes the little bird. It’s the feeling of fingers curled around his throat, causing the archangel to instinctually thrash until he sees through the gloom that it’s…Sam? Sam’s sitting on his body, letting all his weight rest on him, pinning him to the mattress. Before he can issue out the hunter’s name, fingers _squeeze_ and the name is choked into a wheezed sound.

“Hello, brother. Long time no see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Songs:** Knockin' On Heaven's Door by Guns N' Roses; William by LoveLikeFire; Gimmie More by Britney Spears


	6. Go Out Kicking And Screaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When immersed in liquid, a dead sparrow will make a sound like a crying baby.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

“After your Fall, you’ve always been at a disadvantage. It shows.”

There’s a marvel in the body as it struggles to survive. Perhaps if his vessel was more reliable, not composed of parts that Lucifer desperately needed to work, would he just tut at this display of violence against him. But he can’t show the aftershave of his disdain. Only surprise. Nick’s body needs oxygen. His Grace isn’t nearly strong enough to sustain Nick as a human, so he is relying on the human body to function in a mode of… Oh, how would Sam say it? Safe mode. 

He can feel his Grace aching to become small and preserve itself, but fingers burn hot with divine power around his neck and he’s trapped. Lucifer’s left relying on Nick and all he can muster amongst his sloppy thrashing is the baring of his teeth. 

“The more you resist, the tighter I will squeeze,” Sam’s voice rolls out, fingers tightening their grip, a heated palm pushing down against his Adam’s apple. He could grab at the arm, try to yank it away, but that leaves the threat of bruising Sam. He rather not resort to a level of violence towards Sam when there is the option of preventing it. With that in mind, his erratic movements taper off, feeling his body tremble violently in the aftermath of his own restraint. 

“Good,” Sam — or what is possessing Sam — praises, fingers deliberately relaxing around his neck. Lucifer greedily drinks in the air, hating the gasp that exits his lips. The fragility of the human body threatens to tower over his own ego, understanding that even if he wished to fight whatever may be residing in Sam, he holds no chance of winning by strength. There is also the problem of not knowing whether this was of angelic origin or something else entirely. 

“I wasn’t aware Sam had a guest,” Lucifer issues out cooly, hot fingers still resting on his neck and lax. Letting his eyes adjust to the dark, he turns his head a bit and sighs at the glint of steel in Sam’s spare hand. There is no intention of letting him leave this interaction. Sam’s index finger taps a beat against his neck, lips pulled into a strange smile. 

Sam’s shoulders rise and fall stiffly in a shrug, more robotic than fluid. “You’re not the only one,” comes the simple reply and the archangel snarls. 

Fingers stretch out and falter when the hand on his throat squeezes, muffling the archangel. “ _Sam doesn’t know?!_ ” he manages to hiss out, words ragged and nearly silenced at the end with the heavy hand on his jugular. His fingers grab at the shirt on Sam’s frame, wheezed snarl filling the air. 

Lucifer prays for his Grace. _Help me. Help me. Help me. Please. Help me. Just this once._ Prays for his Grace to be at full capacity once more so he can carefully peel the monster sitting inside Sam and destroy him. _Help me. Help me. Help me. Please. Help me. Just this once. Father, please, let me do this for him!_ This was intolerable. This cannot continue any further. He closes his eyes and prays to a Father he hasn’t prayed to since his beginning days in the Cage. _Dad, please, help me._ A silent plea to give him the strength to do what is needed. 

There are brief flares of colors streaking across his vision and, for a moment, he thought this was his sign of an answer. His Father is responding and a choked sound leaves his throat, waiting to feel the fullness of his Grace. It’s only when he feels his fingers turning numb does he realize it’s his vision beginning to blacken from the lack of oxygen, hands already moving to grab at the hand around his throat when it shows no interest of letting go.

Lucifer heaves for air when the hand relaxes. 

“I do not have the _time_ for banter, brother,” Sam’s face is contorting and it’s after a moment does it settle on the expression of distraught. Someone else is inside of Sam and manipulating him, his movements to his facial features. Whoever is wearing Sam doesn’t seem to be completely synchronizing with the hunter, forever stuck in a rigid stature. Muscles are tense, spotting the pronounced tendon in his neck and vein on his temple… He’s trying not to burn through Sam, DNA code failing to harmonize with this piece of Creation. This angel — this apparent ‘brother’ of his — is trying so hard to contain the Salvador Dali disaster from spilling out. It’s a surreal form of horror and it speaks to him with Sam’s mouth. 

“It’s best we keep this brief and to the point. We will not progress further if you continue with your outbursts,” Sam’s voice informs him stiffly. “I ask for your cooperation, not for my sake but for Sam’s.” Lucifer only remains still, trying to determine if his worn out Grace can try to read who is sitting in Sam.

“You are very…weak, Lucifer. You do not see it, but Sam is living on borrowed time. I was asked by his brother to save him and here we are. I am the only thing keeping Sam alive. If I were to leave, he would die,” the angel explains with a look that Lucifer supposes was meant to be empathetic, “I am content in this position. You threaten it. I am graciously asking you to part ways tonight — ”

“ _No._ ” 

The other angel gives a sharp sound that must be a laugh, Lucifer’s not sure. A thumb pushes down against his Adam’s apple, blunt nails digging into the side of his neck.

“ ** _I am not finḭ̼͎̰̪͜s̛h͚͍̝̲̟̲̼e̵̹d̳̗̟̜̙._** _If you do not leave, I will kill you,_ ” his voice rises with authority, words clipped and beginning to look annoyed. “I’m giving you the option to live for but a few days out on your own. I know you will die quickly without Sam coddling you and your crippled Grace. Why not take these few days of freedom while they last?” the angel bites out with irritation and Lucifer wonders for how long has Sam been under the illusion that everything is fine. He wonders for how long has someone been watching them both interact with borrowed eyes? 

“It is a less bloody decision, Lucifer,” the angel adds softly, piecing back its crumbling composure, when the archangel is quiet for too long.

If he leaves the bunker, Sam will continue to be possessed by an angel who never received true consent. It’s a thought that drives Nick’s sludge called blood into a toxic boil. If he leaves the bunker, this angel will continue to utilize Sam until he breaks down completely. Working his jaw, glaring at the thing occupying Sam, he snarls out, “I will not let you stay in Sam.” 

Sam’s shoulders just rise and fall. 

It’s instant. A staggering burst of pain that sits in his belly, forcing him to nearly tuck his chin in to stare at the item jutting out of his stomach. The hilt is familiar and he can make up tiny scrawl near it. This is Sam’s knife. 

Pain feels so strange in this state. It makes his thoughts focus solely on the spot wounded, logic struggling to push past the curtain of panic. _You’re bleeding. It hurts. You’re bleeding. You have nothing to sacrifice that can stop this. You need your lungs. You’re going to die. It hurts._ There’s a hand pushing down on the hilt, colors flaring brightly across his vision and giving a staggered cry. All he can do is lift his head and stare. The human body is overpowering in its sensations, blindsiding all coherent thoughts of how to get out of this situation. There are thousands of nerves shouting at him that he is dying and it’s overwhelming the loudness of these sirens.

Blood doesn’t quite spurt out but rather slowly ooze, blackened sludge of blood that has been sitting it veins pushing its contents at a tired pace. There’s no creation being engaged in Nick’s body when its power source is at its low. Already Lucifer can feel his skin beginning to bruise around his neck, Grace focusing on the wound and leaving the image of fresh flesh to fade. The illusion of wholeness is fading and eroded body parts of Nick begin to show their true colors. Fingers move to touch at the spot around the knife, swallowing a pained sound. He doesn’t understand why he can’t breathe deeply anymore, stuck giving quick, ragged breathes.

There is Sam’s face, body moved back to stare at his wound. 

“I waited a long time for this,” Sam’s voice breaks through his mortal body’s sirens. It’s a hush. The body he wears suddenly faraway from his thoughts, leaving him with the dwindling hush of Grace and the yawn of Time. Perhaps in spike of morbidity and epiphany did Gabriel come to mind, scripture and leftovers of Heaven spilling across the hand that held that ugly blade… 

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer heaves out, shifting up on the bed as if to make his way to sit up, grimacing at the growth of pain. The angel gives a trying smile, obviously quite tired of Lucifer. 

“It’s a bit too late for apologies.” 

Lucifer frowns, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the knife. “Not you. Sam.” Gritting his teeth, he pulls the knife out, ramming the handle into the corner pocket of Sam’s right eye. There’s an angry howl and Sam’s weight is off of him. 

Rolling off the bed with a groan, it’s a sloppy scramble of getting onto his feet, making a mad dash to the door. What a disaster humanity is with it’s incredibly useless bodies. Lucifer is aware with each step and twist of the doorknob that these are contraptions built for failure when in dire time of need. Face grim, he digs his fingers into his open wound, pushing back at what his Grace is struggling to repair. It’s only a matter of time before he returns to the visage of a little bird. 

Pushing himself to move forward, he grabs at a nearby door and pulls it open. A closet. But Sam is near, a frustrated snarl issued out somewhere to his far left. Cursing in foreign tongue, he steps into the closet, closing it quietly after him. It’s a sweaty shuck of bloodied hand slipping on the doorknob and wood thudding against the doorframe too loud to be unheard by the first floor. Human bodies. Useless sacks of blood and guts. 

Sinking to his knees, he drops the knife, fingers digging into his wound. Swallowing the urge to cry at the hot flares of pain, frosting at the edges like a familiar omen, he greedily pushes the slosh of blood out of Nick. Clearing his throat, he lets the sludge sit in his hands, lifting his cupped hands closer to his mouth. The blond rushes out quiet words, closing his eyes when he hears the doorknob twist. 

The door swings open and Sam is in the doorframe, staring down at a sparrow drenched in blood and struggling to move in the mess of oxidized blood. 

The entity reaches out and grabs the bird, already swallowed by the enormity of his palm and curled fingers. “I think we’re done, Lucifer,” Sam’s voice carrying over the frantic chirping. Slowly he lets his grip tighten, feeling the little thing fight and struggle in his grip, notes rising in pitch and frequency. Gadreel can feel the pinprick of talons pushing against his palm, but it’s to no avail, his hand only tightens. 

Lips curl into a smile when a snap softly snuffs the throng of chirping. It’s but a small burst of light, filling the room with lukewarm heat and the aftermaths of the Morningstar.

————————————————————————————————————————-

Dean stretches as he pads into the kitchen, eyeing the time on the clock before he’s fiddling with the coffeemaker. Filling the pot with water, he he fills the coffeepot, taking his time in this morning ritual before the rest of the bunker awakes. Listening to the harmonious gurgle of the machine beginning to make his first morning brew, he turns around and swears vehemently.

Sam’s sitting at the table, hands folded on the wood surface and staring blankly at him. Dean rolls his shoulders and swallows thickly when he realizes that Sam’s not the one watching him. Eyes study his brother’s face and frowns, spotting the makings of a black eye around his right eye. He can see the discoloration around his eye and on the upper rim of his right cheekbone.

“What happened? Is Sam okay?” Dean rushes out with concern, moving closer before stopping, as if realizing who he is moving towards. 

“Sam is fine. There was a slight altercation last night and it has been dealt with,” Ezekiel begins stoically, eyes never leaving Dean. 

“Wait — what? Altercation? What the hell happened?!” 

“I saw a threat and I engaged with the threat until it was subdued — ” the angel continues, ignoring Dean’s outburst. Did someone break into the bunker? Was it Crowley?

Dean’s voice rises with the urgency, “Cut the crap and tell me what happened!” 

Dean watches Ezekiel open his hands, revealing a rigid sparrow laid out in his palms. There’s blood matted across its feathers, sticking out haphazardly and neck twisted too far left to be normal. Dean can smell the beginnings of decay from where he’s at, moving the back of his hand against his mouth, regurgitating a surprised sound.

There’s Lucifer, frighteningly small against Sam’s cupped hands and stiff with death. Dean is ashamed to admit that he isn’t troubled that Lucifer is dead. He’s only troubled that Ezekiel has held onto Lucifer’s body for who knows how long to show him his finished deed. If anything, there’s a quiet curl of relief. Lucifer was a potential problem — a rising one. Did Sam really believe that when Lucifer is all healed that he wouldn’t try to reclaim Hell? Bring back the Apocalypse? Try to convince him to be his vessel again? Dean shudders, remembering the vision Zachariah shared with him. He remembers… 

2014 had no Kevin, no Charlie, no Sam… It just had scared people he didn’t care for and the Devil. Even his future self treated Castiel as fodder. 

"Did you know that if you place a dead sparrow in water, it will make the sounds of a crying child?" the angel shares idly.

“Zeke — that’s fucking sick, you know that?” Dean calls out, taking a step back to get away from the sight and the smell. Ezekiel closes his hands. Even though Lucifer taken out of the equation is a plus, there is fear beginning to bleed and spoil his relief. This angel killed an archangel. What is Sam going to say to this? How exactly did this altercation start? 

“Why — he can’t even stay all human looking for too long. You’re telling me you felt threatened by a bunch of feathers?!” There’s an ugly sensation coiling in his gut, looking at the angel sitting in Sam with a growing realization that he has no control over it. That it was an independent entity on its own that will do as it pleases. 

Ezekiel frowns at him. “You should be grateful. I did you a favor. You stated Sam was becoming too close to Lucifer and I remedied it,” the angel reiterates, opening his hands to reveal nothing save for the stains of blood on his palms. “Lucifer has nothing to provide save for Heaven and Hell’s attention. With this can we move forward.”

“Move forward with what, exactly?” Dean grits out, “Because last time I checked, we weren’t making a lot of progress on this Heaven and Hell bullshit. And you promised you’d be out of Sam soon. It’s been months, Zeke. _Months!_ ”

Ezekiel stares at him before clearing his throat, “This is what will occur. I will leave one of the doors here ajar. Sam will wake up in his bed. He will eventually look for Lucifer around the bunker. He will see the door has been opened and other clues Lucifer left. I need you to play your role, Dean. Remember that your brother’s life is still being hunted by Death.” Dean’s question is left unanswered, watching wordlessly the angel wash his hands in the sink and move off to Sam’s bedroom. 

Dean swallows his guilt and goes through the mechanics of making a cup of coffee, thoughts racing towards a solution. This is too much. What Ezekiel is doing, while helpful in getting rid of friggin’ Satan, is too much. Now he has to lie to his brother again, not wanting to think about how every conversation between them has been riddled with falsity. 

It takes thirty minutes for Sam to exit his room, yawning and mumbling a ‘good morning.’ He pours himself a cup of a coffee, Dean finding himself rushing out a conversation. Talking about some politics and bullshit celebrity drama, eager to just fill the space with something. Sam chuckles in amusement, rummaging through the kitchen, setting his cup of coffee on the table beside Dean. 

“Pretty sure the cocaine is actually his and the friend is taking the fall for him,” Dean is finishing explaining, sliding his phone over so Sam can see the article when he takes a seat at the table. Sam squints at the illuminated text before cocking a brow at Dean.

“Didn’t know you were so invested in Justin Beiber’s life,” Sam retorts, taking a sip of his coffee, turning his head to eye the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, have you seen Lucifer?” his younger brother asks, twisting a bit in his seat to eye the container of water and bird seeds he leaves out. They look full and untouched, Dean swearing under his breath. 

“No. Not at all. He’s probably…somewhere around here. Poking around. Stuck under one of the armchairs because you keep on spoiling him with food,” Dean teases back. Sam scoffs and pushes himself out of his chair, opening the fridge to pull out the plastic carton of blueberries and other assorted fruit. 

Sam sniffs and opens the carton, fishing for a bowl. “I don’t spoil him. Anyways, this is healthy for him,” Sam defends. 

“You let him sleep in your room, Sam. Maybe we shouldn’t call that being spoiled and call it something else,” Dean challenges, letting his irritation bleed through because that was another concept he couldn’t wrap his head around. Dean highly doubts it’s because Satan is terrified of the dark and doesn’t want to sleep by himself. Dean ducks the heated glare Sam is awarding him, hearing the sink run water as Sam washes the fruit.

Sam puts the fruit in the bowl and places it on the table, putting the container away. “Isn’t it too early in the morning to be an asshole?” Sam finally heaves out and Dean bristles with insult. Shaking his head, Sam leaves the kitchen, calling out for Lucifer. The older hunter sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated more at himself than Sam’s comment. 

He knows Sam’s looking for Lucifer. Looking through all the familiar nooks the bird would move himself to. Dean could help with the search but it feels wrong to participate in a search for an archangel that is dead.

“ _Dean!_ ” 

Dean’s already on his feet, hurriedly following after Sam’s voice as he stands by the entrance of the bunker. It’s wide open and he’s pointing at a tucked in feather in the corner. “I think he left,” Sam breathes out shakily, stepping out of the bunker with bare feet. “Why would he leave without telling me?” Sam asks, stopping when his feet meet loose gravel. 

Dean stays put in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. “Um…maybe… I dunno, Sam,” Dean begins, working his jaw before rushing out with some bullshit suggestion, “We have to remember he’s the Devil, Sam. He’s going to want Hell back and find those who are loyal to him. I think we were just a convenient pitstop for him to refuel.” 

Sam doesn’t give Dean a rebuttal as he was expecting. Instead his brother’s shoulders sag a bit, watching a hand push through his hair before turning to head back inside. He only utters out a disappointed ‘oh’ and heads back to the kitchen, still drinking in Dean’s words. 

“Think we should tell Kevin about this? Maybe he can tap into some other prophet powers and give us some insight on what’s going on?” Sam asks him when he’s done downing his coffee, hope saturating his words. Dean knows Sam wants a different answer than Lucifer leaving and Dean can’t give it just yet. 

Dean shakes his head, tense at the concept, “Let the kid sleep for a bit longer.” 

Kevin is busy twisting in his sheets, nose wrinkling at the faint sensation of something touching his nose. No matter what way he turns, that sensation of something pressing against the tip of his nose continues to pull him from sleep. Soon something flicks at his nose, earning a disgruntled sound. With a grumble, he swipes at his nose, a whooshed ‘shit’ leaving his lips when his hand meets another hand. 

Eyes open to find a figure looming over him in the darkness of the room. It’s a mad scramble of limbs and panic, the sheets only twisting him further into the bed. Reaching out to turn on his bedside lamp, he finds a disheveled and bloodied Lucifer in his wake. 

“ _Why are you naked and bleeding?!_ ”


	7. Amateur Hocus Pocus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin tries his best to help a grumpy archangel.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

It’s intimidating to see the broad-shouldered Devil standing by his bed with hands clutching his stomach, blood seeping between fingers and red marking his bottom lip and chin. It looked as if he just lifted his head from vomiting blood, skin pale and eyes never quite settling on the prophet. Lucifer was Prometheus-esque, the aftermath of something violent gouging and ripping at his innards. The stench of decay is beginning to become prominent and unbearable.

Kevin is quick on his feet, backing into his desk, chair scratching painfully loud against the floor and papers scuffling behind him with matching nervous energy. “ _Shit shit shit shit_ — okay, I’ll — _shit_ I’m going to get Sam — ” the prophet exclaims, voice spiking in pitch in his panic. 

“ _No,_ ” the archangel interjects, body staggering towards him before it reaches out to find support in the bed frame. “No…you cannot tell Sam and Dean.” Kevin winces at each word because he can see the blood-stained teeth and — _Ugh, gross. Oh G-God, I think I’m going to hurl_ — there’s thick blood pushing out the side of his mouth. It’s not fluid but slow, oxidized red, slipping and clinging onto the archangel’s stubble with gelatin fervor.

“ _Uhhhh_ ,” Kevin draws out, eyes searching the room for a sign of how to deal with this situation without releasing the scream in his throat, “What do you mean I can’t tell them?! You’re bleeding!” 

The blond shakes his head, wincing the movement, body looking as if it’s struggling to keep itself up. “I’ll explain later but…I need this wound to be patched before I turn back.” Kevin is already opening his mouth to protest, making an uneasy side-shuffle to the door. Lucifer’s jaw shudders before teeth click, a scathing glare fired at the prophet. “ _ **שומע אותי, נביא**_ [Hear me, Prophet]! ” the blond shakes out and the native word seems to push at Kevin’s gut as if he swallowed primordial fire, “If I turn into that…pathetic excuse of a creature, this wound will engulf me by size and intensity. I’m asking for your help in aging this wound.” The archangel depletes, shoulders sagging as if that spurt of urgency has drained him.

Kevin swallows a litany of terrified cursing and opts to give a nod. “Okay…yes, alright,” the younger male rushes out, running a shaky hand across the one week’s worth of stubble across his jaw. He ends up scratching at his skin furiously. “What do I need to do? I don’t really know First Aid,” he confesses but Lucifer shakes his head, probably unsure of what First Aid consists of, too. 

“I’m afraid you are going to receive the shorthand version but I’m running out of time,” Lucifer grits, shoulders tense and digging his fingers into his belly, “Human souls are unlimited stores of energy. Raw. Unfiltered. When an angel is in the company of its true vessel, the two can transfer energy without one party fatigued or losing energy. It is…mutual passing and encouraging of energy.” Kevin remembers the Leviathans and heard of Castiel’s fight for the souls to gain the upper hand in Heaven, nodding at Lucifer in understanding. 

“An angel can siphon off any human with their consent. However, if it is not their true vessel, the party giving up energy will feel that loss. It often translates into fatigue and the extreme is the loss of internal functions and damage to the Central Nervous System,” Lucifer adds and Kevin stares at the archangel. 

He fidgets with his pockets, his hands not sure what to do. “I’m guessing you want to borrow some of my energy to repair you…” the prophet ventures, already trying to back further into his desk. “I really don’t want to die,” Kevin emphasizes, hands making an erratic gesture that is serving to irritate the blond. 

The archangel nods in acknowledgment, facial features becoming taut, “I share the same sentiment. I only request two minutes to stop the bleeding and create scabbing. It will result in you feeling slightly tired, but you will regain the energy lost in half an hour or so.” That hardly seemed bad. Lucifer gives a disgruntled sound, Kevin blinking out of his trance to find that the archangel no longer could support himself, easing himself down onto his knees. Kevin’s nose scrunches as he watches blood drip from Lucifer’s chin onto his floor.

“Okay. As long as it is two minutes,” Kevin confirms, moving forward to the archangel and sticking his hand out awkwardly, not quite sure how to proceed. 

Lucifer gives a semblance of an amused look, head lolled back to look at the prophet. “‘Okay’ will not suffice,” the archangel reminds. 

“Shit — I mean, yes. Yes, I meant yes not shit — just, yes, let’s do this,” Kevin stumbles in realization and before he can apologize for his tumble of words, fingers take his hand. The prophet is going to assume that the freezing rush coiling around him is Lucifer, invisible yet feeling it hover and suck at the warmth of his soul. Kevin keeps his eyes slammed shut, resisting the urge to shy away by the blanket of frost. Before the two minute are up, there’s a choked gurgle followed by a peep. Fingers instantly are gone and the connection is severed between prophet and archangel. 

Warmth buffets Kevin, returning to his body that the prophet can feel sweat formulate on his brows. Lucifer is gone. In the space that once contained him is a tiny sparrow sitting on the floor, eyes closed and breathing loudly. It takes Kevin a moment to realize the bird is snoring, with a wearied and hysterical laugh at what has just occurred, he stumbles back against his desk for support.

The only relief he can gain from this situation is that he is given reprieve from staring at Lucifer’s dick.

——————————————————————————————————————

Gadreel is a roaming presence amongst the bunker. The angel walks like a stiff haunting, shoulders straight and back erect, making his rounds throughout all hours of the day. There is always a sick blue light dancing in Sam’s pupils, Gadreel seeming to take the removal of Lucifer as an invitation to peel himself out of Sam’s insides. It’s terrifying to be having a conversation with what you think is Sam to look up and see that there is an angel who has been responding all along.

Gadreel is beginning to understand Sam’s flow of speech, or at least is revealing it to Dean. Whether it’s on purpose or not, the older hunter isn’t sure. The weight of this decision is sinking grappling hooks into the flesh of his shoulder blades and tugging him down, each pull reminding him that he only has himself to blame. 

Dean makes it a habit to pray to Castiel in the safety of his room, vainly hoping that Cas can at least hear him. 

Whenever Sam isn’t lost in his own skull due to Gadreel actively pulling the strings, Sam stares at himself hard in the mirror and blames himself. Dean doesn’t remember Sam being like this when he ran off to Stanford. He was ready to defend himself, rather wanting a case to be built against him than rolling on his back to accept each barb and low blow. Dean wonders when that changed. When Sam has learned to just give a pained smile and nod in agreement at each defect verbally assigned to him. The brunette shifts in discomfort at the idea that it might be him who helped nurture this self-defeating behavior, already going through the motions of brushing that thought aside.

It’s hard to do so when Sam is kicking himself for Lucifer’s disappearance. 

Sam’s picking at a tome on the main table, working his jaw and making a face at the text. “I just don’t get why he left,” he heaves out for the twentieth time within the hour, never satisfied with Dean’s suggestions or noncommittal grunts. “He could have said something or hinted at it,” Sam adds in afterthought, waving his hand about. 

Dean shifts in his seat, casting a wary look at his brother. “You do know that this is…Lucifer we’re talking about, right? The Devil? Satan?” he retorts back and Sam shoots him down with an irritated look. He opens his mouth to give an exasperated explanation but doesn’t quite seem to find words to voice his thoughts, the irritation forming into muddled distress. 

Instead, Sam lets his eyebrows rise, eyes returning to the text, shrugging his shoulders loosely, “You obviously know nothing about him.” 

Something about the comment makes the youngest bristle with pride.

Something about the comment makes the eldest’s brows pinch together and frown.

“ _Really?_ And that’s a bad thing?” he bites out and Sam shoots him a look in warning, but the eldest disregards it. “See, this is what made me nervous about the whole ‘let’s domestic a friggen archangel.’ This whole bullshit he gave back than about he understands you more than your own family. Boohoo bullshit. You let him get into your head and — man, Sam. You let him in!” Dean snarls out and Sam’s fingers are already curled into tight fists, jaw clenched. 

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam grits out, “ _I know_. You told me out there in the church. That it’s my fault I let Lucifer in. I got it.” 

“Do you? So, than, what the hell is this?!” Dean snaps, feeling rage and fear fill his eye sockets and render him blind, “Is this just a replay!? _You should be happy he’s gone._ ” 

He watches Sam nod in finality, slamming the book shut and rising to his feet. “This is exactly why you know shit about him, Dean. He never pulled stints like this with me. He never made me feel bad about my actions not going his way. Never made me feel stupid for the way I felt. I…I,” Sam pauses to card a hand through his hair with a disbelieving grin grabbing at the corner of his lips, “I don’t get how Lucifer can understand me more than my own brother.” Sam breathes out shakily, fingers grabbing at the book and leaving his brother. 

The eldest hunter opens his mouth but stops, opting for slapping his hand against the table and swallowing his blunt words.

Dean sits there until his anger deflates, somberly realizing from his kick of rage that he may have misspoken. But it’s better this way, right? The less Sam cares about Lucifer, the better it’ll be for him to move on.

——————————————————————————————————————

Lucifer wakes up to the sound of clicking. Fingers slide under the pressure of what feels like a blanket to touch at his stomach. The pads of his fingers find something unfamiliar, urging him to open his eyes and push back the blanket over him. It looks like gauze, eyeing the crimson stain with its geometrical cover. Sam’s prayers have been filling every crevice of his skull. Now pulled from his unconscious state, he stews in the cracks in Sam’s voice in each prayer and defeating desperation for him to return.

Lucifer’s not sure whether it’s his stomach that hurts or something else entirely. 

“Oh good, you’re up.”

The blond turns his head and spots the prophet, twisting in his chair in front of a computer. The computer’s glow is casting strange shadows across his face and the walls. He doesn’t respond to the prophet. The archangel eyes his surroundings and finds it rather cluttered than the clean space of Sam’s room. It also appears as if he was granted a pillow and blankets during his sleep, still on the ground. It explains the ache in his back. It’s difficult not to be irritated at the lack of true accommodations. 

Sam would have given him more. Sam would have let him use the bed. 

His petulance must have made itself known on his features because Kevin is making an exasperated noise. “Look, I tried, okay?” Kevin bites and the archangel gives a disbelieving look, carefully sitting up. Wincing at the pull of bandages and skin, he picks at them lightly before concluding it’s useless to see much in the gloom of the room. He moves his hand to comb through his hair before letting his knuckles dig into his eyes. 

“How long have I been out?”

Kevin moves off his chair and is padding across the room, the lights suddenly flipped on. Both of them wince at the lights. “Uh…about two days. Almost three now,” the prophet answers, sitting back on his chair, swiveling on it until he’s facing the ornery blond. “Look, are you going to tell me what the hell happened? Because everyone down there is saying you booked it for no reason? Sam doesn’t seem to be taking it well,” Kevin inquires, watching Lucifer painfully attempt to push himself onto his feet. 

A waspish look batters Kevin, realizing after a moment that the archangel was waiting for his assistance. Moving off the computer chair, he helps move the archangel to his feet and to the bed. It’s with haste does he deposit the grumbling archangel, moving to grab the discarded blanket and place it over him. The blue-eyed angel works his jaw before sighing, “When I’m within the same vicinity as my true vessel, we feed off of the other. However, I noticed that being by Sam did not improve my state the way it should. I’m assuming the wound on my stomach is patched?” 

Kevin nods, “Yeah, I should re-do the bandages but it’s pretty much healed.” It wasn’t enjoyable putting the bandage on the Devil. He had to look it up on Google and figure out how to push gauze underneath deadweight. Kevin did his best to clean up the wound but the archangel didn’t seem to bleed. He just oozed out congealed blood. He was like a corpse imploding and it made handling his gag reflex a dilemma. Kevin decided not to share with Lucifer that he begged Dean to buy Febreze just for the sake of spraying it over the knocked out Devil. He reeked of death. 

“I woke up to Sam on top of me,” Lucifer continued, Kevin making a face at the possibility at where this conversation may just lead. “But it wasn’t Sam. There has been someone else occupying Sam this entire time and it seemed it did not feel safe with me around. It, also, stated that Sam didn’t know he was being inhabited. But it is no demon because it was Grace that kept me put from changing,” the blond’s voice inching in volume with frustration, eyes closing, “I cannot fathom what trick must have been done to get Sam’s consent. So this parasite injures me and I…faked my death. It appears it has been informing the others that I left.” 

Kevin shifts on his spot on the chair, trying to ingest the information. He responds with an unintelligible sound and a whooshed out, “ _Shit_.” Lucifer nods in agreement, fiddling with his wrappings. “Do you…know who this angel might be?” the prophet inquires and the archangel shakes his head. 

“I am far too weak to read another. I’m certain if I was at full capacity that I would have noticed there was something residing within Sam and who it may be.” 

Kevin blinks a bit before giving a half-hearted smile, shaking his head in coming disbelief, “How the hell did you trick him into thinking you were dead?” How do you even trick an angel into thinking you’re dead? It’s hard enough trying to shake Crowley when the demon was masquerading as a cheap James Bond villain. 

Lucifer stops toying with his bandages, replying quietly and brows relaxing, “It was nothing but amateur hocus pocus.” There’s something somber about the archangel’s demeanor that Kevin quite understand. But it quickly eases back into that familiar anger and annoyance at the situation before them. Lips pull wide apart before a throaty snarl escapes past his teeth. “Someone is abusing Sam’s rights and I will not stand for that,” he seethes lowly, turning his head to pin Kevin with a sharp look. 

The prophet flinches at the look, holding his hands in a motion of surrender. “No, I get it. I want to help, too. I’m guessing it means the whole transferring of energy,” Kevin soothes, fighting of the hysteric need to scream that he’s interacting and helping Satan. The peevish angel nods, waiting for Kevin to sit beside him. He looks more like a petulant child who is mutely surprised that he’s getting his way. “Let’s do…ten minutes,” Kevin ventures, watching that surprise on the blond’s face grow.

“Are you sure?” he asks carefully. 

Kevin nods and a ‘yes’ passes out of his lips before fingers are finding his hand.

——————————————————————————————————————

Sam’s been noticing the gaps in time where he isn’t consciously present. One minute he’s opening his eyes to it being eight in the morning to the next finding it’s six in the evening. He’s losing track of time, again, and he can only think of the time Meg sunk her teeth into his skin. Only able to grasp the edges of a memory he doesn’t remember creating, finding blood and fear when he tries to retrace his steps. Sam doesn’t want to retrace his steps. He doesn’t want to know what will greet him at the end of that road.

Sam misses that familiar comfort and control that came from interacting with Lucifer. It always was terrifying. Terrifying that he can wag his finger at the Morning Star and he’ll come and seek out forgiveness from him. It’s always something that leaves him winded when he thinks back to his brief relationship with Lucifer. An archangel, one of the original four, who can lay waste to cities and force the Heavens to rot with just a simple smile would curl up against him at night. Would willingly sit in his hands in such a small form and trust him not to crush him.

Sam can’t shake off the feeling he did something wrong.

The hunter stares silently at the small water and food bowl he’d leave out for the little sparrow. Bending down, he picks both bowls up. Dumping the water, he moves to the trash to dump the seeds. There must have been something he’s done. Something he said for the archangel to no longer trust him. Why else would the bird take leave in the middle of the night when he spent his last interaction on Earth with him trying to get close? 

Maybe he saw his soul? That makes a sound whoosh out of the hunter, not sure if he’s annoyed or mortified at that thought. If Dean would only let him carry on with the trials. If only Dean could trust him to do what was necessary to get the job done, not coddle him. Now he has this: _safety pins and duct tape_. How those words still burn confusion and loss into his chest, as if he’s going down with pneumonia in the personification of failure. There is something wrong with him that is pushing others away. It’s the only explanation he can gather, so sick and tired of Dean using the _it’s the trials_ excuse to make this sensation of disconnect understandable. 

It’s not the trials. These gaps in time has nothing to do with the trials. He knows something is incredibly wrong and yet he doesn’t know where to begin other than himself. 

Sam silently cleans the bowls and puts them away, having already tucked in the bag of bird seeds to a closet. The blueberries are missing from the fridge, but Sam thinks nothing of it. Palming at his face, his body stiffens when Dean comes lumbering out of his from the corner. The eldest eyes him for a moment, as if searching for something on his face, before sighing when he doesn’t find it. 

“Sam,” Dean grunts out and the youngest only focuses on his diligent scrubbing. “Sam, look… I want to tell you something,” he heaves out, leaning against the counter, trying to catch his brother’s gaze. Licking his lips, he takes a deep breath before heaving out, “There’s… There’s a job in Omaha. Seems pretty serious. We should check it out.” 

The taller scowls and puts the dishes away to dry, turning to address his brother until Dean’s face is lighting up at something behind him. 

“Hey! Kevin! Good to see you, man — dude, you look like shit.” The flow of conversation is diverted and Sam can only shoot a menacing look at his brother before heading off to his room to pack. Kevin’s left staring worriedly at Sam’s retreating figure before turning to Dean. 

“Don’t you want to…go after him or something? He looks pissed,” Kevin helps out but Dean already is shaking his head. 

Moving closer to the prophet, he lowers his voice, “Kevin, Sam and I are going off on a hunt. I need you to look up a spell or something while I’m gone. Some kind of…spell that might let someone communicate with an angel’s vessel without dealing with the angel.”

Kevin shifts uncomfortably, staring hesitantly to his left, “What is this for?” 

“Things. Look, it’d be doing me a huge favor. And — uh — just hit me up on my cell about it, okay? My cell only,” Dean insists, patting Kevin on the shoulder before walking off in a hurry. The prophet rubs at his worn face, limbs feeling shaky and craving a kick of caffeine. All he can think of is how pissed Lucifer is going to be once he finds out Dean might have known about this a long time ago.


	8. Short Damn Fuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gadreel and Lucifer finally come toe-to-toe.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You'll see whispers in the winter_  
>  My temper doesn't laugh  
> And every spring I hear them sing  
> I hear them sing  
> Every spring I hear them sing  
> I hear them sing  
> Every spring I hear them sing
> 
>  
> 
> _He's going down_  
>  He's going under the ground  
> I hope he takes you too  
> You too
> 
>  
> 
> \- Fair to Midland

This time Kevin feels the kick. It feels like an hour has passed before fingers leave his hand, wheezing for air and sagging into the bed. He feels light-headed and sick while Lucifer is flexing and moving his fingers, brows and neck glossed with sweat. 

“Why are you so sweaty?” he asks wearily, noticing the sheen across his skin. Blue eyes flick at him with irritation.

“Forgive me for not having control over my sweat glands. Nick’s body is attempting to regulate temperature with the unbearable heat your soul is emanating,” Lucifer snaps, annoyed and fingers fidgeting as if he was tempted to wipe the sweat off his brow but felt it dismissed his irritated rejoinder if he did. The boys left yesterday afternoon and Kevin gingerly shared Dean’s request to the archangel. He’s left with a vessel of disappointment and calcified chaos. Kevin watches it build on the archangel in the form of tension in his shoulders and back.

Lucifer fumes over the news, quiet and deadly, usually found pacing across the room with lips twitching. The only distraction from the coiling cold rage Lucifer was coating his belly with were their moments of passed energy. This time they went longer, pushing it under twenty minutes and Kevin reels in the aftermath of it all. He reaches out for one of the pillows to maneuver it under his head, feeling the muscles in his neck painfully tighten at the quick movement. 

“That’s right. You run cold or something. I remember reading that,” Kevin winces as he rubs at his neck, closing his eyes. 

“‘Reading that?’” 

The prophet cracks an eye open, watching Lucifer pick at the stolen shirt on his frame to wipe the sweat off his face. As each passing of energy continues, Lucifer is looking healthier and fuller in hue, a positive testimony to this draining process. Kevin gives a yawn, giving a slow nod, “There’s books on you guys but the rest is online. And Sam kept on going on how you were so cold the first time he touched you.” He drops his hand from his neck and closes his eyes, once more.

There is silence, only hearing the archangel shift a bit on the bed before requesting with a bright curiosity in his voice, “May I see this?”

Kevin doesn’t think anything of it, handing the archangel the books tucked in the bunker’s shelves the hunters brought over. Lucifer promptly kicks Kevin off the bed to curl up with them with a look, eyes wide with rapt interest as he examines their covers. Such strange images of the Winchesters. It pulls a snort out of the archangel and Kevin deems the relinquishing of The Winchester Gospels as a good move. Perhaps it’ll help ease the anger stewing inside the archangel. Kevin flops on the air mattress on the floor, already falling into a deep sleep

The Morning Star is unsure whether he is pleased to have been given these books or regretting his curiosity. The Winchester Gospels are nothing but pages of muted sadness, descriptors bare but content rich.

There’s something hollow and lonely viewing Sam’s want to be pure in words. It’s never described in elaboration, just fragmented sentences and thoughts splattered about. A reoccurring theme that can be lost if one glosses over the text. Grand dreams silently fading in the background and becoming lost. He finds mystification and confusion in Sam and Dean’s relationship, still unable to fully grasp its resilience even though it brought him to his knees years ago. It still is a phantom of understanding. He snorts in derision over the obsession with the consistent descriptions of the Impala. He gives sympathetic hums and nods of understanding when Sam battles with his self-image.

It stings to read about Sam’s fear towards him. There are moments where Sam is in awe and so acute to his presence. Grabbing at Dean and murmuring in wonder of his arrival as the gate to his Cage flies open. Or the way he could feel him entering the motel, informing a group of conspiring pagans that he was here. The shared exhilaration when they are one, feeling Sam shine with completeness and content that he can’t quite get himself to admit. Those moments pulled little smiles from the archangel as he continued to read. But Sam’s fear was great… It permeated through the text. He was nothing but a driving reminder to Sam he was a freak, and Lucifer tried so hard to convey to Sam that they were wrongly accused for being freethinkers. 

Lucifer only bothers the prophet when he wants the rest of the texts. Kevin groggily shows Lucifer how to scroll and how to click. The archangel balks and gives sounds of distress when the strange ‘cursor’ clicks on something else. Kevin wearily slides over to fix it before sinking back into hibernation.

The archangel flinches at the next books. Cringes at the hammer taken to Sam’s soul. It’s an ugly surprise when he finds himself mentioned in the gospels, actively walking with Sam. In here he violates his true vessel. He goes out of his way to torture and break his vessel’s body and mind with manic glee and cutesy pouts. Sam crumples and he is Sam’s abuser. His enemy. His aggressor. 

How could Sam believe this?! He would never harm a hair on his head. He would never subject his other half to a treatment like this. Didn’t…did not his past action and words attest to that? Did he not wait patiently for Sam to give his agreement? That he would rather wait and be nothing but meat barely clinging onto bones than coerce him? 

But the words are emboldened in text and circulated as The Winchester Gospels. The writing is strikingly clear and it sits like a pit in his belly, re-reading the sections until the words blur on the screen. This is how Sam perceived him, as someone willing to string him up on the ceiling like a Christmas decoration by the neck to exerting control and humiliation through sexual means. This is how history will remember him as: a perverted being who maliciously torments what he once swore he’d support. This is how Sam sees him, and it’s mortifying and nauseating all at once. 

Lucifer feels that reoccurring urge to defend himself just as he did so many years ago, shovel in hand. Hissing out, adamant and pleading to Sam through clenched teeth and furrowed brows. Weary of having to prove to everyone he wants to be close to. That he can be trusted. He can love. He can be a safe place. 

The individual — the only one — who was always meant to be this other half saw him so poorly. This manifestation of a false accusation sits heavily on his being. So, than, what was this? Was he just vulnerable and indistinguishable from his vulnerability as a sparrow that Sam found reason to show him pity? What happens when he is fully recovered? Would Sam regress into that fear now that he’s strong? Is he easier to engage with when he’s more bird than a being to have dialogue with? Was he really that awful to be around? Did they not become one and did not Sam understand him? Didn’t they find mutual understanding in each other or was it an unmemorable moment? 

Sam felt more comfortable when he was deteriorating because that was an image Sam could understand being associated with the Devil. Something he can grasp. Something that looks like it’s minutes away from imploding within itself and it’s reassuring. This monster is going to break down. Won’t be privy to a strong vessel. Factors all associated with weakness and Lucifer allows the train of thought to branch out and bear thick fruits of unease. 

“Lucifer? Lucifer? Hello?” Kevin’s voice breaks in, the archangel tilting his head up to turn to the worrying face of the Prophet. “Hey…um…you don’t look good — ”

“Did you read this?” the archangel issues out frigidly, pointing to the computer before laying it on the bed. It is strangely warm on his thighs and it’s suddenly a great irritation. Kevin only nods his head. “What do you think?” 

The Prophet shifts nervously, feigning ignorance, “Think of what?” 

The blond’s frown deepens. “Do you believe that I’d harm Sam? That I would violate him?” he’s seething now, spitting out the words. It is selfish to take his anger out on Kevin. Selfish and blinding but there is an ache in his throat and it feels as if Nick’s brain is bleeding in a panic. He can feel the brain stem unhinge and become awkwardly crushed by the weight of the brain.

“I…I don’t know,” Kevin confesses quietly before it turns into a call in surprise, “Lucifer — hey! Wait, where are you going?! I’m not — shit.” 

Lucifer doesn’t heed the prophet’s words, rising swiftly to his feet and leaving the confines of the room. The bunker is quiet with the absence of the Winchesters and Lucifer walks through the hallway, unsure if he’s enraged or wounded. This shouldn’t bother him. He should be use to the unwelcoming reception but it bothers him nonetheless. 

Kevin is chasing after him, but he slips into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him firmly with the flick of his fingers. Nick’s face is whole and healed in the mirror. The archangel lets his Grace stretch, skin thinning around his cheeks before it tears. Bright blooms of pinks and reds, blood beading out to drip down his face. Lucifer burns just a little brighter, pushing at the confines of his vessel with force. 

Skin is being eroded away by Grace, the air reeking of ozone and blood, tasting the copper tang in his mouth. His scalp is bleeding. This makes Sam feel safe. Blood on his teeth and frayed blood vessels. It makes him disarming and tolerable when his vessel is nothing but a broken mass. 

“Lucifer!” Kevin’s screaming out at him, at his side and grabbing him by the arm. The bathroom is beginning to shake and tremble. “What are you doing!?” 

His face is losing its color, staring at the towering body of manifesting gore. “Take my hand! Lucifer!” Kevin is shouting at him and the blond watches him idly. Kevin wedges a finger in his ear, wincing as he takes a step back. “ _Shit shit shit_ — ” the prophet is cursing, looking around him for the First Aid kit, tearing at the cabinets. Finding it absent, he simply grabs Lucifer’s hand, “Yes. Did you hear me? I said ‘yes’ now come on!” 

The archangel closes his eyes when they begin to bleed. He listens to the rapid patter of Kevin’s heart as he lets Grace push out of his eye sockets. Kevin is a loud mess in the bathroom, cursing and struggling to stop the bleeding with towels. His hand is still glued to his, curled tightly and squeezing it, as if reminding him that he is there. That Lucifer can take whatever he needs, but the archangel doesn’t respond to the frantic coaxing. 

“Fine! Go ahead! Be selfish!” Kevin’s hand leaves him, eyes open with films of red that break like curtains constructed of water. The world is painted in red. The prophet looks terrified, chest rising and pressing himself against the sink. His bottom lip trembles, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to stare at him, “Throw a tantrum, but the more you hurt yourself the more you can’t help Sam!” 

The bathroom stops shaking. Split open fingers stretch out and Kevin grabs at them, swallowing thickly and giving the ruined archangel a nod. The two remain standing until Kevin’s knees begin to wobble, both slumping against the bathroom walls. 

“It hurts,” the archangel exhales quietly. 

Kevin doesn’t think Lucifer’s referring to his vessel.

——————————————————————————————-

The boys return at the end of the week with groceries and foul moods, picking at the other. Sam feels wrong. Can’t remember the drive back or even going on the hunt, but Dean has the bruises to prove to him it occurred. He’s tired of the excuse of the trials, for it only makes him eager to finish the deed if it means it will make Dean stop talking about it.

Dean grumbles about needing a shower, stomping off as Sam puts the groceries away. He finds Kevin’s name with the grocery receipt. The yellow slip of paper is strange in his palm and thick. Sam shoves it back in his pocket, moving the gallon of milk into the fridge. Everyday he’d find little pieces of paper. Different names scrawled on and when he tries to look up the names, he can’t quit remember it clearly and ends up at a loss. This is the first time he recognizes the name.

Sam’s scrounged through the Internet enough times for it to conclude that he has every disease, dysfunction and illness under the sun. Dean’s not eager about the idea of sending him to a hospital for a check-up and Sam can’t blame him. Every time they end up in the hospital it only leads to another tragedy. But something is wrong that can't be explained by anything Sam's aware of in their line of business except for that mess with Meg. But the anti-possession tattoo is thick with ink on his skin, so he rules demon possession out.

_Sam…_

There’s a sudden flare of heat coiling in his chest, a bright recognition that has him gripping at the table for support. Lucifer. That same sensation of exhilaration that he felt in Elysian Fields Hotel when Lucifer arrived. Haphazardly shoving the grocery items in his hands into the fridge, he spins around and walks toward the gentle push and pull of familiarity. 

Sam gives a whooshed out sound of relief and surprise to see a familiar figure standing in the heart of the bunker. The skin around Lucifer’s left eye socket has been sanded down to pinkness of worn flesh and the tenderness of muscles, part of his brow missing. Lips are split and skin looking as if it’s but one scratch away from peeling apart. Blue eyes are painfully bright, able to catch from his position the specks of light sparking within his irises and pupils. 

Lucifer’s brows arch and he tilts his head, lips curling into a tight smile. “I see you̗̘͚̹̘͍͙͑́ͫ̓̏͛̑̊͑́̔ͮ͂ͮ́̑̚͘̕͜͞ͅ,” are the first words that Sam’s hears from Lucifer, voice more multidimensional and cosmic than the vibrations of vocal chords. It makes the lights convulse and each note leaves in its wake the death of ear cells. They sing their swan song, a dying melody. 

“I…what?! Luce — are you okay?” Sam wiggles a finger in his own ear, concern beginning to show onsets of fear. Lucifer’s eyes soften briefly at the Winchester, brows furrowing to mirror his concern, giving a careful nod. Lucifer can see the parasite attempting to burrow itself deep into Sam's noggin, a poor attempt of hiding from him. With a sigh, he curls his fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion and Sam gives a strangled sound. Shoulders suddenly are pulled back and back erect, eyes wide open and looking eager to run. Brows are pinched together, appearing as if Sam was trying to retreat within himself but Lucifer lightly shakes his head. 

“Gadreel,” Lucifer addresses and the angel is never given the privy to beg for his life, to give a scathing threat or spit out his anger towards the Morning Star. He is only given the moment to refill Sam’s lungs with air, breathless and frozen in time as Lucifer burns out of his body. His skull breaks. Heaven’s brightest pushes out of Nick’s skull, light like fingers easing itself out. Bulbs shatter into puzzle pieces contracted out of glass, drifting like dust in the air. Light spills like paint. It greedily shifts about and devours all other form of light, casting the bunker into pits of darkness that frames the crawling colossus. Lucifer drips power, splattering on the floor like drops of sunlight.

Bright lights of an archaic Heaven coil and curl, forming teeth and eyes crafted of ice. The sun has merged into the archangel, golden and yet frozen. It fills the space, pushing against the ceiling and crowding the space Gadreel was in. Grace flares out and the bunker and Earth groans in unison. Series of maws, large and small, part and the sound that emits reverberates through bone marrow. 

O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡  
O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞ U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡  
O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞ U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢ T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡

The Earth joins its voice in the magnetism of the sound. It chants in affirmation. O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡O͏̨̖̣͔̖̗̜̖̙̦̤̫͞U̸̢̻̝̪̻̰̺̖͎̩̜͕̬͢T̡͘͏̞̤̭͙̲̬̺̣̳̮̦̝̗͖͖͚͜͞!̴̡̩͔͕̩̗̞̬̞͍̘͟͞͡ Light, faint but present, gushes out of Sam where Lucifer snags it in the air. Teeth sink into it, thousands of hands pulling at it, screeching madly with a halo of glass dancing lazily. The Morning Star deems Gadreel foul in broken tongue, words frosting in the air. Tears at where bone and socket of his wings reside. Shatters his halo and swallows the fragmented light. Squeezes at the writhing angel till quicksilver seeps out of its pores. It burns through the flooring as the angel is broken down to its beginning components. Awful shrieking and whining fills the space before it dies down to muffled sounds. 

The Morning Star gnaws on it, great maw trapping the angel as it tears at the fabric of its being. Lets its teeth grind and break down the angel who is nothing but figments. Figments of an idea. A thought. Forcing regression onto the angel. With a rumbling sound, shaking the foundations of the bunker, Lucifer devours the fading light into nonexistence. The Morning Star fiddles with its teeth before turning to examine the gloom. Sam has his palms to his eyes and is huddled behind the rows of wooden tables. 

The archangel moves carefully over, too large for the bunker and fluidly beginning to coil itself in. He can see Sam now. Can see the fractures in his soul to his physical body from within. Sam shies away from him when he knows he’s near, digging his palms deeper into his eyes and wincing. The Morning Star stretches his Grace out and pours gold in his Grace into the fractures and cracks of Sam’s soul, repairing with melted stars. It shines brightly back at him. Lucifer’s Grace shrinks, losing part of its mass in the process. He gives Sam’s insides Time. Takes the years and pain that has been sitting on his liver to his intestines, taking away the wear and tear. He heals his true vessel with careful fingers, threading him back together. 

Lucifer gives one more look at Sam’s engoldened soul before retreating back, weariness beginning to pull down at his being. Light begins to refill the room and when Sam finally opens his eyes, the bunker is put back together and a little bird is staring up at him patiently. Sam’s too overwhelmed to talk, bewildered by the strange fullness in his being that is pleasant and warm all at once. All he can do is bend downward and kiss the top of the sparrow’s head. 

The sparrow quietly sings back to him and Sam swears he can hear: _Sam Winchester is saved._


	9. Harvester Of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face returns to the bunker and gives Lucifer a warm welcome.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Wooaahhh! Thank you so much for the huge amount of responses and comments on the last chapter! That made my week! Thank you for taking time to read and leave a comment, I deeply appreciate it! I hope you all enjoy the new chapter!

Sam feels fear and an old familiar thrill when Lucifer steps out of his vessel. Sam can’t see it.

He’s blinking and watching Dean snap his fingers at him to pay attention, playful grin weaseled onto his lips. His brain is struggling to put together the pieces, feeling as if thoughts were being suppressed or smothered by a hot heat. He’s been sitting with his brother for an hour now doing some research on a potential case. It all feels wrong to Sam but doesn’t know how to explain the sensation. The younger hunter opens his mouth to return his brother with a taunt when he feels it again. It’s strong and overwhelming, sending cracks into the dream he’s been plunged into.

_Lucifer…_

There’s a pull and push of energy that makes his toes curl that is crawling up his spine, feeling Lucifer’s presence and Grace. It’s the tremendous chill one receives when the orchestra begins to play, tickling each nerve into a shudder and every hair on his body standing to attention. It’s the commanding presence of music, silencing the world to string together notes and vibrations in the air. Sam, once, wanted to explain it to Dean or ask Castiel if every dialogue between true vessel and angel is just like this. If it’s the low, rocking of the piano. Key changes that churn out color and texture as both achieve harmonic progression. Sam’s nervous of their responses, not wanting to strike up scolding or shared worried looks that he’s more monster than man. So he keeps it to himself, lost in the memory of the seduction of tempo and the conjoining of voices. 

Sam can feel it now rippling around his skin, eyes wide and staring in disbelief at the scene before him. This is not right. This isn’t Dean. He can feel Lucifer calling out to him. He can feel his Grace is near and active. This is a dream. With a shudder the scene melts and saturates into the floor of his subconscious, the sensation of his body feeling soggy making him twitch and itch in his own skin. His eyes fly open and Sam is brought back to the surface.

Sam sees for a brief flicker in time the Morning Star dragging an angry twist of light out of him. 

Sam nearly forgets how to breathe.

Slamming his eyes shut, feeling pain surge and pry at his optic nerves, he hunkers down onto his knees. It should be loud. He should be hearing the sound of tables being flung and chaos, but only music drifts about in his ears. Sam digs the heel of his palms into his eyes, feeling the room pitch downward in temperature as the room shakes underneath his feet. The slide of bows against string pulling mournful melodies only drifts through his ears, being answered by stirring notes until the orchestra is complete. 

He knows he should be feeling excruciating pain and terror swirling in his stomach and behind his eyes, but the music dulls it down. When the tempo slows into the pace of a languid waltz, does Sam know Lucifer is approaching him. There’s a far off voice asking him something, feeling a mass of cold dancing near his right side. Sam gives a mouthed ‘yes’ and the hunter is heaving and gasping, as if injected with adrenaline, his body pouring with live wire energy. Lucifer is cool and careful, pouring what looks like sunbeams and encased starlight into his soul behind the protection of his eyelids and palms. 

With a finishing touch, Grace eases away and Sam feels fresh and whole. There’s Lucifer chirping at him from the ground, a tiny brown thing of feathers. 

He feels like he’s ten — maybe younger — so ignorant of the world he truly lived in and going to soccer practice after school. It’s light and warm inside of him, not a system with holes that are nothing but cold spots reminding him how hollowed out he really is. He feels tethered to the ground and it leaves him with contagious grins. His dimple is more pronounced and his cheeks are beginning to ache but he just can’t stop, giving a breathless laugh. 

Fingers rub against the spot behind Lucifer’s little head, the sparrow giving a pleased trill. They share this brief moment of content with the other, worries far off and both soaking in success. It doesn’t last long. 

It comes in increments. 

Flashes of the puzzle pieces that have been omitted from him. 

A man sitting next to him in the hospital bed. Bobby telling him he did more than alright. Dean. Dean hitting him. Dean hitting him hard. Split lips. Death leaning towards him in a chair. There’s blood on his hands. Loud music. Suburban neighborhood. Blood on the carpet. Yellow pieces of paper. Bars. Metatron. It’s just the trials. Duct tape. Bloodied sparrow in his palms and a fist squeezing the life out of it. Dean. Kevin’s name. 

Sam’s fingers draw back to rub at his forehead, hissing at the onslaught of memories that once were omitted from him. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling little feet crawl up his leg and pick at his jeans in worry or attention, perhaps both. 

“Sam?! Sam! _Jesus_ — are you alright? I think there was an earthquake or something,” Dean’s voice breaks through, the younger Winchester aggressively digging his knuckle into forehead before letting his eyes open. There’s Dean hovering over him, eyes searching at him with concern before it falls down to the little bird on top of Sam’s legs. “So the little shit is back…” Dean laughs but Sam shakes his head, trying to sort the jumble of new memories. Trying to put them in chronological order, ignoring Dean and Lucifer and letting his eyes close shut. 

The trials occurred. Angels were falling. He passed out and there was Death. Sam was ready to go, begging Death to make it impossible for anyone to bring him back. He was ready to go but Dean showed up but…it wasn’t Dean. Metatron called him Gadreel. Gadreel called himself Ezekiel to Dean. Dean said ‘yes’ for him. 

Sam swallows hard, dropping his hand to lay on his leg where a tiny little head pushes against it immediately. Dean’s still talking to him but the words are not sinking in. Slowly opening his eyes, Sam gives his brother a troubled look, not sure he if he even recognizes his sibling with these omitted memories now made aware. It makes him feel tired and worn. “Lucifer killed him, Dean. I know what you two did to me,” the hunter states wearily and the blood in Dean’s face drains. 

Sam pushes himself off the floor, pausing in his moments to scoop Lucifer up and deposit him on his shoulder. Moving onto his feet, he gives Dean an unsteady look before moving past him. 

“You were dying Sam. You wanted to go…you wanted to die,” Dean is heaving out, “I wouldn’t let you because that’s not in me.” 

Sam is spinning on his feet, his words waver, shaking his head in distraught, “ _I was ready to die, Dean!_ So, what? You decide to trick me into being possessed by some psycho angel?! That wasn’t even Ezekiel you let inside of me!” 

“He saved your life!” Dean heatedly shoots back. “Does it matter?!” 

There’s angry sounds from the bird on his shoulder and Sam can feel himself trembling with frustration. “Yes, it matters!” he seethes, fighting off the urge to prowl forward and sock his determined brother in the jaw, “Because all you thought about was yourself! Because you can’t live without me so you… You forgot about me — ”

“Really? _I_ forgot about you — ?!”

“Yes! You did because you didn’t think about what I wanted! How I would feel! What it would do to me! I remember everything now, Dean. There is blood on my hands. Kevin… Kevin was going to die because that thing inside of me was told to kill him! You lied to me and I felt like shit, Dean! I felt like I kept on failing you in every hunt but now I know. I — you know, I can’t do this right now,” Sam can feel his voice rising in volume, shaking with grief and irritation before it crumbles into something soft. It’s nothing but a strain on his gullet trying to shout out why he’s troubled by this to someone who doesn’t want to listen. 

He can see the panic brewing in the base of Dean’s throat, eyes staring with a desperate sort of need that forces Sam to look away. “I saved your hide back there. I saved your hide at the church,” he enunciates, Sam turning to leave because he doesn’t want to see Dean. Doesn’t want to see that broken sort of “truth” rattling about in his brain like a sick mantra. “I saved your hide at the hospital! You know what, Sam,” Dean’s voice is rising, shouting at his retreating back, “It was the right thing!” 

Sam works his jaw, letting his body turn halfway to shake his head. “You didn’t save me. Lucifer did,” the younger hunter replies quietly, lips pursing before he leaves his brother. Dean looks more than wounded at the comment but Sam pushes his way towards his room. The world grows silent with the slam of the door behind him.

————————————————————————

The bunker carries tension with it, Dean watching listlessly his brother avoid him. The eldest doesn’t understand Sam’s disappointment fully. Yes, he didn’t think it through in letting Ezekiel — or whoever it really was — in but his intentions meant well. He was trying to be a good older brother and it baffles him that Sam can’t at least reflect on that. He wants him to understand that he did worry, that each step with “psycho-angel” was one that sat with unease. That he wanted to tell his little brother that there’s something in him but his throat was nothing but lodged with glass. But the intentions were good, right? What happened to fighting the good fight together, right? This is what good brothers do. They help make those hard decisions the younger ones can’t make.

His brain feels as if it’s been punctured and on the fritz, oozing blood into his cranium until it’s soaked in its own mess. It’s an unsettling fear that maybe…maybe this wasn’t right. Maybe he really fucked up this time. Maybe he really failed Sam and that shakes him. He tells himself that the least he can do is give Sam space to think but really it’s a way to escape. To just push aside this problem for just a bit longer. 

Dean reminds himself with each sip of coffee that he saved his brother. He’s the reason why Sam is alive and not looking as if he’s standing on his last two legs. He tells himself he’s a good brother. But the lack of Sam’s presence makes his chest feel tight and the glass in his throat slide down the track of muscles into his stomach. His body aches. Maybe if he says sorry Sam will just stop avoiding him… 

The eldest opts for heading out, greedily sucking in the fresh air that comes whipping through the open windows of the Impala, eager to get as far as he can from the problem. Metallica is blasting on the radio, mouthing the lyrics to singing it under his breath as he drives with no direction. He pulls into the gas station it hits afternoon, moving without a real purpose through the aisles. 

Grabbing a hot dog, some mini-pie lookin’ thing (more of a rip off but it’s cheap) and coke, he pushes his way out of the gas station. Mouth half full of the hotdog and pushing all his items into the crook of his left arm, he searches for his keys when he spots a bird sitting on the hood of the dash.

“Aww man,” he groans in disbelief, waving the hand with the hotdog in a shooing gesture, “Come on! Get off the car! Get off! Shoo! Go poop somewhere else!” The threats are ineffective with the food still being chewed in his mouth, the brunette scowling at the rather large bird that stares unimpressively back at him. “You’re scratching the paint! Get… I’ll throw my friggin’ coke at you,” he threatens and the bird seems to process that threat and stretches its wings, flying down onto the ground. 

Dean’s not sure what kind of bird this is. Pretty sure it’s a hawk with its flax seed colored legs and blue-gray plumage. It’s face looks like it’s a hawk. The hunter makes a face at the bird that is cocking its head at him, staring up at him before issuing out a sound that’s high-pitched and a fast staccato. The hunter makes an uncomfortable sound, wiggling a finger into his ear. He curses under his breath, reveling in the disbelief that he’s never shared such animosity for birds until little shit sparrow came tumbling fucking in. 

Scowling, he makes a wide birth around the hawk and sets his items on top of the Impala, finding his keys to unlock the door. There’s a flutter of wings and the hawk is picking at the plastic bag where his pie and coke sits. Dean slaps his hand on the roof of the car and the bird’s head pulls back, looking highly offended and annoyed. “Let me guess! You’re an angel, too. Of course, I should have known,” Dean seethes out, dripping with sarcasm as the bird issues out another high-pitched sound, bobbing its head. “Because last time we picked one up, ended up we picked up a spoiled douchebag,” the hunter adds for good measure. 

So he’s still sore about Sam claiming that the fuckin’ Devil saved him. It makes his stomach turn. It just sounds all sorts of wrong and it makes Dean think of white suits, instantly sobering him up from his angry tirade. The hawk is still bobbing its head, moving a foot to push the items closer to Dean. The hunter shoots a quizzical look, taking the bag. 

“You’re…an…angel?” Dean asks slowly, drawing out each word with narrowed eyes and a displeased frown. 

The bird bobs its head again. 

Dean drums his fingers across the hood before realizing the damn bird is going to scratch the paint again, waving the bird off. The hawk gives an irritated sound and flies back to the ground beside him. “Um…Cas?” he tries out hesitantly and the bird gives a sound Dean assumes is a confirmation. Dean refuses to let himself feel relief. Ezekiel is still heavy on his mind and he can’t afford to bring home something that really isn’t what it says it is. “Okay…well, I need proof,” Dean explains and the bird only rustles its wings before letting it sit neatly to its sides. 

“I don’t speak bird so…” the hunter frowns, scratching at his nose before it clicks. “You know that scar you gave me? Looked like a huge blister or something in the shape of a hand? Where did it use to be?” 

Wings stretch and Dean’s howling in pain when talons sink into the spot where his left bicep and the beginning of his shoulder meet, shouting at it to get off. “ _Fuck!_ Yup, nailed it,” he grimaces, gripping at his arm, his hot dog abandoned on the ground where the bird is curiously picking at it. _“Christ…”_ he whooshes out, gripping at the punctured area tightly. “Alright…good to see you, too,” he exhales. 

The ride to the bunker is a disaster. He threw on a blanket onto the passenger’s seat but the talons are sharp, grimacing and wincing at the idea of leather being torn up. The eleven-inched bird just sits patiently in the passenger seat, cocking its head occasionally to look about. It acts like Cas and it sure as hell guessed correctly, but there’s an underlying presence of fear that maybe he’s repeating the same mistake as last time. 

“I didn’t make a mistake, though,” Dean reminds himself, the hawk sitting next to him giving a quizzical noise that Dean doesn’t bother to grace with an explanation. 

The hawk peels out of the car and instantly stretches its wings when Dean pulls into the bunker’s garage. The bird perches on the handle of a motorcycle looking as if it’s tempted to use Dean’s shoulders as its next perch. “No, no, no. No sitting on my shoulder,” Dean warns as he moves into the bunker, hearing Castiel follow after him. It gives irritated little sounds when the ceiling is too low to fly before easing into a thrilled staccato noise at the heart of the bunker. Instantly it takes to flight, sitting on the ceiling’s beams. 

“So…Sam’s in his room, I’m guessing. He’ll be glad to see you,” Dean calls out to the bird and he assumes its listening to him. It feels nice, though. Dean doesn’t quite know how to place it but he always felt a bit outnumbered with Lucifer in the bunker. Now with tensions high between Sam and himself, it feels nice to have someone he can confide to. It eases his nerves, settling down at the table to pick at his purchased pie. 

It’s an hour before Sam walks into the common space, Dean working on his lukewarm soda with his feet propped on the chair across from him. “Hey… I got some good news,” the eldest clears his throat, “Guess who I found just an hour or so ago?” 

Sam shrugs his shoulders and Dean clicks his tongue in annoyance at the lack of interest. “Well I found Cas — or, he found me, whatever — so I found Cas not too far from here. He looks like a bird, too, except pretty damn big compared to Lucifer…” Dean announces before he drifts off into a worried note, turning his head up to see if he can spot Castiel. The hawk is gone from the metal beams it was prowling about on. “Shit…” he hisses under his breath. 

Sam twists around to give a pleasantly surprised smile but stops when he catches the transformation of Dean’s face from pleased to concern. “Uh…I thought you said this was good news. What’s up with the face?” Sam asks with the slight pull of his lips, brows furrowed in question as he makes a gesture with his fingers towards his face.

Dean pushes himself off his seat, working his jaw until it gives a soft pop. “Because I forgot to tell Cas that Lucifer’s here,” Dean answers and Sam’s moving before he can finish his response, long legs sprinting across the bunker calling out for the bird. Grimacing and letting his hands clench into fists, he follows after Sam, calling out for Castiel. 

Lucifer’s not in Sam’s bedroom and Cas isn’t roosting in the observatory. The boys push themselves deeper into the bunker until the sound of shrill pitched noises can finally be heard. “That sounds just like Cas,” Dean calls out to Sam who is still ahead of him, making a sharp turn into the garage. There’s feathers everywhere, Sam staring at an agitated hawk that is screeching and trying to reach something underneath one of the cabinets. There’s blood on the chest of the hawk and Sam assumes that this is Castiel in the form of the hawk.   “Cas! Stop!” Dean barks out before Sam can wave his hands or bum rush at the bird. 

The hawk gives a frustrated sound but stops, moving out of the way to begin picking at its damaged feathers. Sam lays down on his stomach to look underneath the cabinet, staring at a bloodied sparrow panting heavily. The youngest hunter sighs in relief to see him alive, watching it slowly wiggle its way out of the small space, dragging its left wing after it. 

Sam swallows and nods, reassuring the winded and worn sparrow, “Don’t worry, I can fix this.” That makes Dean grind his teeth in annoyance but he swallows it down. Swallows down the hateful comment itching to burn out of his throat at how Lucifer is nothing but a problem. That they shouldn’t be fixing the goddamn Devil. They should be acting like brothers. Fixing them not some stupid sparrow. That this fraternizing with the enemy is only going to lead to hell on earth. 

Dean aggressively runs a hand through his hair in debate, scratching at his scalp with blunt nails before reaching out to touch Sam on the shoulder lightly.

“Hey…let me drive you guys to the vet,” Dean offers, words coming out brusque but Sam awards him with a grateful look. 

It’s a start.


	10. Of Bird And Angel (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easier to interact with Lucifer when he's small and made of feathers.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Aldrovanda](http://aldrovanda.tumblr.com/) for being my bird guru since day one on this story!
> 
>  
> 
> **Author's Note:** _As an FYI: This chapter picks up from Sam's POV._

Lucifer is so terribly small. Small in his large hands, blood matted on his feathers and left wing stretched out, bending an odd way that doesn’t look normal. He makes quiet little sounds when the road gets rough and the car jumps or when the Impala comes to a stop. Lucifer’s splayed out in hands that but weeks ago gripped him tightly and squeezed the life out of him — or at least a projection of the bird. Yet here the bird is, once more vulnerable in his hands and trusting him not to close them. 

It dawns onto the Winchester that he always had this form of control over Lucifer. That the archangel has always maneuvered himself in nonthreatening and submissive positions in a way to remind Sam that he has control. That he will always bend for Sam Winchester and no one else. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming all at once to have this epiphany, conflicting heavily with the worry sitting on his brows over the injury.

Lucifer repaired him and Sam feels now it’s his turn to mend the Morning Star…

\---------------------------------------------------------

**_{ Days Prior To The Attack... }_**

The hunter kept his distance from Lucifer in the beginning, however. Kept himself voluntarily confined and ostracized himself from the world for the first three days after learning of Gadreel. While his insides feel whole and his heart fuller, he feels the foundations of his world shake after hearing Dean’s recount and return of omitted memories of what occurred. It hurts — an acute sensation of pain that burrows in his being — hearing Dean defiantly claim he did Sam justice. 

That he saved him. 

Dean can’t trust him, once again. Doesn’t quite view his ability to govern himself as favorable. 

Foul memories of Dean heatedly informing him that he trusts Benny over him circulate his thoughts. Dean listing off his faults and suggesting he atone and ask for forgiveness before the last trial. Dean grabbing his face as he can feel that last step rage inside his skin and promise they can work this out together. To have faith in him. Dean pummeling him relentlessly within his own mind, the antagonist who demanded he stop moving but, instead, stay put. It’s difficult to dissect his own insides and return to that mantra that he is sin. That he is nothing but a black spot on the appendices of history. That he’s the ‘boy with the demon blood’ and nothing more. That it’s no wonder why Dean has a difficult time giving him substance. Yet it is still hard to ruminate over his own internal failings when he knows — _he feels_ — that he is strong. Pure. It’s a strange and fascinating awakening in his mind, helping him bat off the temptation to turn to himself and hang himself for Gadreel. 

Whether real or figments of his dying conscious, he remembers the reassuring words given by Bobby through the landscape of his mind to Death tipping his own hat to him. But it’s not nearly enough to eclipse the sensation of loss at what has continued to occur for months. An angel sitting on his insides without his permission, manipulating his body as such and slapping on tape when his body’s damage is too visible. Sam feels as if he lost a brother and he gained…he gained something foreign in its place. He feels like a souvenir of Dean’s ill-suited judgements. He feels less like a brother and more of a comfort blanket that Dean is willing to mangle if it means he can still hold onto it. 

Sam hates it. Hates feeling uncertain about Dean. Hates the way the uncertainty and worries over the eldest clogs and occupies his mind.

It hurts that Dean played and abused his own fear: possession. Meg felt like slime under his skin, retched and hot sulfur behind his eyes. Lucifer, while felt thrilling and complete, was someone he fought tooth and nail against from the beginning because what would Dean say? He’s not supposed to think any sort of positive thoughts about Lucifer and he still remembers Dean’s face every time Lucifer is brought into conversation: disgust and apprehension. Possession terrifies and repels him and to know his own brother agreed to have a strange angel ride him does more than trouble Sam. It horrifies him how desperate Dean is to keep him alive and around. That Dean can’t see where he went amiss. That he’s willing to give up parts of Sam if it means keeping him about.

It’s part of the reason why he asked the archangel to give him space for the time being. Everything is too raw and while he knows the little bird means nothing but well, he can’t piece together his own thoughts with the archangel about. His own moods seem to shift and churn within his belly. One moment swallowing his misery until its thick in his throat and can no longer go down to grinding down his teeth in madness at this reoccurring plot point. 

Lucifer gave a sound in acknowledgement at Sam’s request and would sit outside of Sam’s door, silent and watchful. Sometimes Sam’s caught off guard when he emerges out of his room, nearly stepping on the brown puff of feathers who would only shuffle out of his way. He’d even wait for him when Sam goes out for his runs, earphones shoved in his ears, the sparrow rushing after Sam who is moving towards the exit of the bunker. It’s graceless flapping of dysfunctional wings on each step, ending up winded but resiliently keeping up. There he’d sit on the steps, watching Sam become a pinprick as he goes on his run. 

Sam doesn’t realize till he’s reaching the bunker on his return early due to rain, finding a soaked bird sitting patiently for him. Lucifer only gives a satisfied sound at his return and waits for Sam to open the door before he does a waddle into the bunker, wet wings stretched open as if keeping balance. Sam’s left scratching his head as he watches Lucifer move away from him, as if only present to make sure he made a safe return. 

It’s Kevin who fashions a makeshift bed for the archangel, which is more like pillow cases and blankets being stuffed in a shoebox. He even brought a little bowl of water and food for the sparrow, much to Dean’s chagrin who is annoyed at having to pass it every time he walks down the hallway. 

It’s the third day of shutting himself out from the world does the need for an actual meal pick and pull at his stomach. It’s been a while since he had something substantial and he’s getting tired of cereal. Lucifer isn’t waiting outside when he opens the door, brows furrowing and creating creases on his forehead. A glance at his watch tells him it’s three in the morning and he assumes the little bird is prowling about. Trekking to the kitchen in loose pjs, he finds the kitchen lights on and Kevin tapping away at his laptop. Sitting on the table is a plate of bird seeds and an exhausted sparrow asleep in the middle of it, little seeds stuck to his beak.

Sam’s lips pull into a rare smile, lightly rapping on the wall to inform Kevin he’s here. 

Kevin jerks his head up and smiles, looking worn and under slept as usual. “Good to see you, Sam. Good to see you’re both taking a break,” the prophet points out dryly, moving his head in the direction of the sleeping bird, tiny frame rising and falling. “He’s really protective over you. Tried to peck at my toes when I went for your almond milk.” 

The Winchester eyes the sleeping bird for a moment, smile softening before giving a snort in humor, “Glad to know my almond milk is safe.” Sam guessed Lucifer was acting as his protector, following after him and making sure he’s not left alone despite there being walls and a door between them. It’s oddly reassuring and not surprising in the least. Lucifer always did try to make that connection even before they both tumbled into the Cage. It feels good, especially during a time like this, to have that reassurance he’s not alone in this. Moving to the cabinets in search of food before pulling out the nearly finished loaf of bread. “Feel like french toast?” Sam offers, shaking the wrapped up bread. The prophet nods and Sam goes about collecting the ingredients. “Uh…so…did he tell you what happened? I thought — I mean, I remember now what Gadreel did. He pretty much…” Sam makes a motion with his fingers, not willing to finish the sentence but Kevin grunts in understanding. 

That was a strange memory to keep. Holding a tiny bird in his hand and squeezing until bones crack. It makes Sam nauseous if he ruminates on the memory for too long. 

Kevin rubs at his forehead and closes his eyes, “Uh…let’s see. He was in my room and woke me up. Bloodied and naked. He was falling apart and it was bad.” He opens his eyes, brows pinched together and his hand moving as if hoping to help explain the severity of the archangel. “Looked like he actually was made out of…dead body parts — like the illusion sort of faded? Anyways, he’s been leeching off of my energy, ever since, to help patch him up and it took time. Whenever he takes from me, it made me exhausted. I would have to recover from the transferring of energy before he could take more.”   Sam busies himself cracking eggs into the bowl, attempting to put together the concoction without having to glance at his phone every few seconds. “Are you okay?” he twists his head, glancing at Kevin, “Did…were you hurt? Side effects?”   The dark-haired prophet shakes his head, “No. Just made me sleepy. He made sure it never escalated to anything else. But when you two came back from the hunt, Lucifer was close to full capacity — at least for him to lay some serious damage on Gadreel.” The prophet opens his mouth to say more, a sound leaving it before he stops and closes his mouth. Sam notices, beginning to look uncomfortable in his chair under Sam’s gaze. 

The prophet caves in, dropping his voice to a lower volume, something somber crowding the prophet’s features, “Look, there is more but…it’s not my place to share? Sure he’ll tell you but…it was rough, Sam. He was really worked up about someone pulling the strings without your permission. All I’m saying is that it wasn’t exactly the easiest couple of weeks.” 

Sam nods, shooting a grateful look to the sparrow on the table as he begins to place his soaked pieces of bread onto the pan. “Thanks for taking care of him, Kevin,” the hunter sighs out, Kevin giving an affirmative grunt in return. “Just sometimes it feels surreal. The guy I’m supposed to be avoiding ended up being the one to…” his lips purse before parting, as if trying to find the next line of words. His hand sort of lifts and falls against his thigh, words spilling out into a sigh, “Put Humpty Dumpty back together again.” 

The young prophet blinks for a moment before returning to his laptop, giving a scratchy laugh. “I think he’d be pretty annoyed if he knew you just compared yourself to Humpty Dumpty,” Kevin wryly points out and Sam shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing. He leans his hip against the counter next to the stove to eye the prophet, not sure why Lucifer would even care. 

“What? Why?” 

The young prophet sighs and only points out with a jab of his finger, “The french toast is burning.” The conversation is dropped and never brought again, Sam battling with the french toast. It’s the smell of cooked food being presented on the table that rouses Lucifer, a trill of pleased noises at Sam’s appearance and sitting impeccably close to his plate. He’ll cock his head at the french toast on his plate, giving questioning little sounds that Sam answers by pushing stray fruit he previously sliced towards the bird. 

“He really likes food,” Sam comments after swallowing a bite. 

Kevin snorts, “I don’t think it’s just the food…” 

On the third day, Sam lets Lucifer back in. Sam continues holing himself in his room, trying to fall in love with the space and find it a haven when it has been purposely arranged to look like workspace. Lucifer is the only anomaly in the room, a brown little sparrow hopping about on his desk and often moving across his keyboard to push itself into the cage his fingers create as they type away. It’s been nearly a week, now, since Gadreel has been pulled out of him and swallowed whole by Lucifer and the archangel has yet to change back. He remains a little bird, chirping and repeating tunes Sam hums under his breath. 

Kevin hypothesizes that the overwhelming show of Grace and power did a number on the archangel, meaning recovery time might just be a bit longer than usual. 

All of his questions will have to wait for another day and Sam’s alright with the wait. He’s enjoying Lucifer’s company, small and disarming as he is. 

The little sparrow peeps at him sleepily, sitting next to his steaming cup of coffee, leeching off of its warmth. Kevin’s right. Lucifer’s protective but Sam notices that he’s content in Sam’s presence. Lucifer’s pleased with just being around him and the hunter isn’t sure if that’s due to being socially and physically deprived of touch and interaction in the Cage for so long or just enjoying his company. The archangel doesn’t seem concerned about Hell or the functioning of Heaven, instead only showing interest in Sam and his doings. It makes Sam wonder if he, perhaps, missed something crucial in his past interactions with Lucifer… 

He knows he, personally, associates the bird with comfort. The sight of the little bird meandering through the room to tucking its head underneath its wing on the bed dissipating any rising panic in his throat or dark thought. He feels protected and yet not overwhelmed by the concept of an archangel roosting in his bedroom, thanks to the tiny form Lucifer takes. 

It’s therapeutic, lost in the quiet routine the two have in the small space of the room. Lucifer spends his days sleeping by Sam’s hand or mug of coffee while the hunter types away on the computer or pulls out a dusty tome. Sometimes he’ll read out loud to the bird who will sit on his desk, eyes closed and breathing deeply, only stirring when Sam stops. 

Sometimes Sam marvels in the sheer difference between his interactions with the little sparrow and the broken down vessel. It’s easy to touch the archangel when he’s disarming and consisting of feathers and musical notes. Sam can’t quite remember ever showcasing the same gestures with Lucifer when he’s made of flesh and whole. While he hopes Lucifer’s recovery is swift so he can ask the archangel all of his unanswered questions, he can’t help but feel apprehension to that approaching date. How does he thank Lucifer? Do they just shake hands? Pat him on the back? How do you interact with the Devil after he saves your life and looks real and whole? 

The hunter scowls in dismay whenever the worry creeps forward from the crevices of his skull, not knowing when Lucifer appearing human became such a rising concern. 

Lucifer is bloodied and mangled in his hands, wishing that the archangel was in his humanoid form. There he knows how to repair, stitch and repair. Yet as a bird he knows so little and the bird is delicate, not sturdy as the broad-shouldered vessel Lucifer wore. All he can do is push his way into the nearest vet, at a loss of what to do and offering him up. 

The song sparrow is nothing but shrill sounds and screeches when foreign hands carefully remove him from Sam. The bird’s undamaged wing flaps angrily and legs stretch out, talons spread wide as if prepared to grip at whatever may come his way. It doesn’t take much convincing for Sam to be allowed to come with the personnel, leaving Dean in the lobby with a hawk perched on a neighboring tree outside.

Sam can only rub at the little bird’s head with his forefinger, Lucifer easing into a state of compliance as he’s carefully cleaned up. He’ll occasionally make annoyed noises at the the hands of the veterinary assistants and the attending vet but he doesn’t move to strike at them when their fingers near his head. 

“He’ll heal in time. There appears to just be damage to the radius but a splint will help set and heal the wing. It’s nothing severe but I do suggest that when he does heal to begin exercising both of his wings. The muscles appear underdeveloped. Just encouraging him to flap his wings and it will help develop health and strong muscles,” the vet states, having walked through Sam how to properly fashion a splint, finishing up wrapping Lucifer’s splint with bright blue tape and gauze. The bird looks irritated at best, feathers flared and standing at odd ends. Sam nods in assent, vaguely remembering the past exercise he's done with Lucifer but never quite kept up with. Lucifer's wings were haggard and incomplete, Sam's not sure if he stopped simply because he forgot or because he felt it was a lost cause.

“But…he can’t really fly,” Sam replies in confusion. 

The vet pauses with his gloved fingers, making a gesture to Lucifer’s undamaged wing. “Majority of the feathers appear to be in poor condition, probably due to the lack of self-care. You can stimulate the bird’s preening behavior through frequent baths. However, if you look over here…see how these feathers carry a sort of sheen to it?” Sam nods his head, leaning forward to look. “Those are pin feathers. They’re new so it tells me growth is present but he’s not removing the sheath. If he is comfortable, you can help by gently rolling the fingers between your fingers. It should flake off rather easily,” he concludes, drawing his hand back. “Go ahead and try if he’s feeling agreeable.” 

Sam moves around the table, the archangel giving a peep which Sam is going to interpret that as a green light to go ahead. Carefully moving to one of the glossed feathers, with the pads of his fingers he carefully rolls it. “Like that?” Sam inquires, more so to Lucifer who gives out a few high notes as the vet gives his own affirmation. 

“So…” Sam ventures, words drawling out, “If his feathers remain healthy and in good condition, along with exercising his wings, he has the potential to fly again?” Lucifer’s interest is piqued, moving its head away from the vet’s hand to peer up at the two of them. 

The vet nods, “It'll take time and patience, he just needs your help.”

The hunter folds his arms across his chest, staring down at the song sparrow twisting its head towards him. Sam’s lips pull into a lopsided grin, “You want my help, Luce?” The room is suddenly filled with bright noise and musical notes, Sam laughing at the little bird who seems nothing but eager to begin now.


	11. Of Bird And Angel (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's two steps forward, one step back.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

There’s something akin to disappointment and envy at watching Sam rush off into the depths of the clinic, hands cupping a disgruntled sparrow. Sitting and waiting only drives negativity and cynicism to dangerous lows, opting to push his way out of the building. Dean sucks in the cool air until he chokes on it, giving a ragged cough but the copper tang in the back of his throat is refreshing. 

He knows this is the right step to take but any pleasure to be gained is nonexistent. Dean shoots a thin-lipped smile dripping in poor humor at the hawk perched in a nearby tree, before calling out, “Well, you going to just sit there and stare?” He’s annoyed. Annoyed that Sam had to let the stupid little shit of a bird back into his life. While it grated on Dean’s nerves to see that sparrow sitting in the hallway, waiting for Sam to leave the room, it was comforting to know that Sam was kicking the Devil out, too. But even that didn’t last long, Sam letting Lucifer in before him — his own flesh and blood. 

It all feels wrong and so he is stuck in a perpetuating state of annoyance, caught in the middle between making Sam happy and keeping his brother safe. Apparently the two do not positively correlate. 

He’s annoyed that he’s here. Annoyed that he owes Lucifer his thanks for pulling Gadreel out of Sam without any repercussions. Annoyed that Sam just can’t get over this consent issue and move on. Troubled that he hasn’t talked to his brother without their being tension and distance with each word. It’s… It’s lonely. 

The hawk spreads its wings before swooping down, settling at Dean’s feet before something is yanking at the front of the hunter’s jacket. With a harsh push, shoving a sound out of the hunter’s throat, the coolness of exterior of the building is introduced to his back. Deep pools of blue are narrowed into thin slits, challenging Dean’s irritation with its own.

“What is Lucifer doing here?!” Castiel grits out and Dean only makes a disgruntled sound, moving a hand to try to push Castiel off of him. The angel is a little bit too close for comfort and it doesn’t help Cas is bare ass naked in the middle of the day. 

“Christ, can we please put some clothes on you first?” the hunter complains but Castiel does not yield, gaze unblinking and firm. A heavy sigh pushes past his lips, “It’s a long story. Believe me. _Hey_ — look, I’m not exactly screaming with joy either. He’s been nothing but a pain in my fuckin’ ass. Now can you please get off me so I can at least give you something to wear?”

Castiel’s frown only deepens but he takes a step back, watching the hunter pull his shoulder blades back to pop his back as he moves to the Impala. 

“This does not bode well. If Lucifer is out he can completely change the current course towards the Apocalypse,” Castiel begins as he follows after the hunter, hovering next to him as the hunter unlocks the trunk. Dean rolls his eyes at the sound of the Apocalypse, lips pursing into an unamused slant. “Dean, while I understand that he appears weak, you must remember that Heaven only has Metatron to defend it. Hell is warring over a crown. Angels are warring against each other. Are you certain he is incapacitated as the other angels from Metatron’s spell?” he inquires with urgency and Dean only angrily moves through the contents of the trunk before pulling out a pair of jeans and a jacket, “If there is one being who can effectively make every piece on the field his own, it’s Lucifer.”

“Yeah, Cas. I know. I fuckin’ get that. World is once again going down the gutter. Pretty much writes itself,” his words drip sarcasm as he snaps back, twisting his body to glare at Castiel, handing him the clothes. It feels good to get angry. To just lash out and Dean, guiltily, knows he can push and push at Cas and get away with it. “I think he’s still a threat whether he’s the size of my fist or not. I’m handling it. And I sure as hell don’t need the lecture — hell man, especially from you.” 

Castiel only gives a perturbed look, as if momentarily caught off guard at the heat of the hunter’s words. It is issued with furrowed brows and pursed lips, slipping into the acquired clothes with sharp purpose. “You’re upset. You’re also making light of this through sarcasm,” the angel points out dryly and Dean only gives a snort, closing the trunk. “I do not understand why Sam is attempting to care for Lucifer nor why you are housing him,” he reiterates and Dean works his jaw in frustration. He knows why he allowed Lucifer to settle in. He remembers Sam’s speech of being trusting and upfront with him, of how it’s safer to keep Lucifer in the bunker than let him roam free on Earth and other snippets of bullshit. To be frank…it was Sam’s fault that Lucifer remains but now Sam’s playing Stockholm syndrome and Stepford Wives with friggen’ Satan. That annoyance-of-an-archangel should have been squashed the minute they had the chance or at least tossed into the Cage. 

Now it’s because of this Gadreel removal incident that it only is bringing Lucifer closer. Cas ripping Lucifer a new one only is bringing Lucifer closer. The further Lucifer settles in the bunker the more Dean feels like his brother is being taken from him. It’s all a nice way to avoid the litany of problems and disconnect between Sam and himself. Lucifer’s a perfect scapegoat and while Castiel’s irritation with him grates on Dean’s nerves, his fury towards Lucifer is welcoming and comforting. 

“Well Sam’s been making some reckless decisions since the trials…” he replies sullenly, the words tasting as equally foul and amiss on his tongue. Cas frowns, eyes squinting at the younger male before fumbling with the zipper of the offered jacket. “Where the hell have you been, anyways? I prayed to you, Cas,” Dean pushes the conversation elsewhere and the angel gives a nod, a strained pull on his lips until it forms a misshapen line. “I mean, how the hell are you even here? I thought you were going commando. No Grace because of Metatron. The whole being human spiel.” 

Castiel turns and moves a few steps away from the Impala, as if more interested in frowning at the standing sign of the vet clinic. “This is not my Grace, Dean. I…” there is a pause and Dean can’t catch his expression from his angle but he can only imagine the infestation of strain overcoming the angel’s facial features. “I made a hard choice and I have to move on. It’s crucial for my… For me to create efficient progress,” he finishes, the words unsure but Dean nods in understanding. Sees it as an opening to introduce the hell of a problem sitting in the bunker. 

“So ah…how does that work? I thought Grace is, you know, for a specific angel. Tailored,” Dean inquires and Castiel gives a nod, bare feet twisting so his body can face the hunter’s. 

“It is. But I am making do,” Castiel replies with finality and Dean gives a hissed sound between his teeth. 

The words are ready to tumble from the hunter’s mouth, to explain what has transpired during his absence and why he asked Castiel to leave. To ask if he really did fuck up or is Sam just overreacting. To find solace and comfort from Castiel, reassuring him that he chose _correctly_ in ensuring Sam’s alive. That the consequences outweigh forcing Sam’s survival. “Ezekiel” riding in Sam was better than having Sam six feet under the ground. But they fall short on his tongue and he rocks on his feet, staring hard at Castiel who is returning the gaze. He spots the faint shows of crusted blood across his shoulder, hiding from view even more so thanks to the jacket.

“You got red on you,” Dean quips, moving his hand as if ready to clean it off but he stops midway, lips pulling into a smug grin at his own reference. But Castiel does not pick up on it, instead dropping his chin and rubbing at the spot with his fingers. “Did you get hurt?” The confession of the past events never manages to pass through his lips.

“No…” the tousled angel replies, “This is Lucifer’s blood.” Dean’s lips purse together, giving a slow and accentuated nod. 

“So…what kind of bird are you supposed to be? 

“Sharp-shinned hawk,” he replies simply, Dean eyeing Castiel as if he was going to elaborate but it doesn’t come to fruition.

Dean gives an exasperated sound, letting his arms lift and hands slap against his thighs when they drop, “Shit, Cas, you’re one for small talk.” The angel frowns in confusion, head cocked right at the hunter before blue eyes raise to a spot behind Dean. Giving a half-roll of his eyes at the angel, he turns to find Sam leaving with Lucifer in his palms with bright blue tape over one of its wings. “So what’s the verdict?” Dean asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, situating himself in front of Cas. 

Sam shoots a concerned look past Dean’s shoulders before smiling down at the sparrow attempting to make itself bigger, feathers beginning to stick at odd ends and chest puffing out. “He’s going to be fine. He just needs to keep it easy for a bit,” the younger hunter replies, turning his head up to smile at Cas, worry lines etching themselves onto his forehead. “Hey, Cas, sorry we didn’t give you the heads up. It’s good to see you — ”

Lucifer emits angry trills, good wing stretching out and chest deflating with the exhale of the sound. Castiel balks, eyes instantly narrowing dangerously and lifting his chin up in offense, Dean’s hand instantly moving to press against the angel’s chest. 

“Alright. Let’s not turn this into a cock fight, okay?” Dean raises his voice, shooting a warning look towards Castiel. Sam nods, sacrificing his index finger to rub the spot underneath the sparrow’s beak. There’s a buzzing and vibrato of noises dancing in the little bird’s throat that Sam can feel against the pad of his finger. 

“Cas…I suggest you just meet us at the bunker. Okay? Please?” Dean heaves out. The angel scowls before leaving with a rush of air, Sam shooting a grateful look to Dean who is straightening himself up. 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam mumbles and the eldest brother feels his lips perk into a smile, pulling the Impala’s door open. He doesn’t reply to it, unwilling to spoil this brief moment of gratitude, leaning over from his seat to pop the passenger door open for Sam. It feels good. 

Dean takes what he can get. 

Kevin is there to greet them when they return, giving a relieved sound at the bandaged but still breathing bird. Castiel observers as he trails after the group, eyes watchful and focused on Lucifer who is giving pleased little sounds at the attention. It appears as if Kevin is feeding the archangel a piece of fruit, the bird wolfing it down and tilting its head in a quiet demand for physical attention. Sam only laughs, beaming down at the spoiled bird with its eyes closed and stretching its neck further. 

“Guess you can say he’s rocking the one-winged angel look, eh?” the prophet chuckles. He turns his head to Castiel, ducking his head and offering a smile. Castiel answers it with the slight tilt of his head. “Is he going to be okay, Sam?” 

Sam gives a nod, “If anything, he’s probably going to milk all the attention for all its worth.” The bird gives an indigent sound and that is where Castiel observes the disconnect. Dean is walking away from the chattering three, moving off unannounced in the direction of the kitchen. With a quiet sound in thought, he leaves the three to follow after Dean, a quizzical expression settling on his brows and lips. 

He finds Dean rummaging through the fridge, pulling out a chilled beer before twisting to hold it up in offering. The angel shakes his head, watching Dean shrug his shoulders and close the fridge door. 

“You are not joining the others,” Castiel states and Dean presses the bottle against the fleshy portion of his forearm and giving a twist. A soft hiss from the bottle is the first to answer Castiel’s question. Dean tosses the cap on the table. 

Dean plops into a chair, taking a swig before letting the bottle sit on the surface. “It’s best I give Sam his space for the moment,” Dean replies simply. Castiel’s features shift from confusion to disappointment, a heavy sigh issuing past his lips. “Hey, before you do the whole ‘stow your shit’ speech, just know that your buddy Ezekiel wasn’t exactly Ezekiel,” he adds warningly, pointing a finger in the angel’s direction. How quick disappointment flutters back into confusion. 

It’s spilling out of Dean’s mouth now, angry and accusatory. 

“Sam was dying, Cas. He wanted to die. The guy said he was Ezekiel and you said he was a pretty stand up kind of guy,” Dean heaves out, giving a pointed stare at the angel as if somehow he is partially responsible for the ugly twist of events. Not having Sam…well, not having Sam cracking jokes with him or fussing over research, always somewhere near each other, is a harsh break from his routine. This routine of having Sam around and seeing him as his big brother is comforting and secure. A nice spot of warmth and purpose, but with their relationship the way it is now, the routine is broken. It’s not a pleasant feeling. 

He doesn’t like that this isn’t a problem that can be moved past in just a few days. 

He doesn’t like sitting around in his room trying to understand Sam’s anger. 

He just doesn’t want to think about it. But Sam’s alive and he’s here. It’s all he could hope for. 

“So I…Sam was about to croak and I said ‘yes’ to the guy to…you know…” Dean makes a motion with his hand as he takes a long swig, licking his lips when the rim of the bottle pulls away. “To fix him from the inside. Said he was weak, too, from the spell and he needed to play doctor inside to effectively lay down his mojo…” he trails off, working his jaw and Castiel issues out a sigh from his nose. “So Zeke gets Sam to consent and whamo. Looks all good until…he wanted you gone, Cas. That’s the reason why I had to have you leave. He said you were a threat and if he left Sam, Sam would die. Long story short it ended up being some douchebag named Gadreel. It was never Ezekiel,” Dean finishes quickly, refusing to look at Castiel who is frowning deeply, a whooshed sound chasing after Dean’s words. 

Castiel is instant in his response, tone ringing with alarm and yet his words are level and firm,“Gadreel is the traitor who allowed Lucifer into the Garden. He was locked away in Heaven’s prisons. He was allowed to inhabit your brother — Lucifer’s one true vessel?” Dean opens his mouth to response but it’s rapid-fire with the angel, making him snarl in annoyance when Castiel cuts him off. “Is he still within Sam? This must be dealt with,” Castiel issues out with irritation lacing around each word, hands curled into fists. 

Dean scowls and shoots his head up, eyes narrowed sharply, “Hey, this shit wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t get bad information.” Castiel can feel the froth of Dean’s words. Can feel the panicked anger curling and boiling inside of Dean. Dean shakes his head, working his jaw, “Lucifer killed him. He’s out of Sam.” That eases the tension stringing up from Castiel’s ribcage, hanging decor of stress and fear at the idea of taking down an angel far older and stronger than he. 

“You intend to put part of the responsibility on my shoulders, Dean,” comments instead, quiet and pensive as he pulls himself into a contemplative state. His focus returns to the hunter, watching his body language and the downward twist of his mouth to the defensive barring of his teeth. It’s hard to look at his friend.

“Yeah well…good intentions, right? So don’t be shy,” the hunter’s voice rises before he pulls back, as if realizing perhaps he’s being too loud and the others will hear. So he leans back into his chair, uncomfortably adjusting his position, leaning forward to hiss out, “I know I don’t think shit through but I meant well, okay? We had a deal! Sam was welching out on his deal with me. Promised that he wouldn’t die until he’s old and gray. Now he wants to suddenly make the big leap and go off with Death?!” Castiel is not quite following the line of conversation. “You know what, it’s not my fault the guy ended up being psycho-angel of the friggen’ month, okay!” 

Dean burrows the heel of his left palm into his left eye, gritting his teeth that traps a defeated sound inside his maw. “You think I like it?” he asks softly, dropping his hand and letting his body hunch over the table, “That I like being at odds with my brother? That I can’t get it through his thick skull that I was just trying to help him. I just… It’s supposed to be about fighting the good fight together. I didn’t feel good having that thing ride him. Playing fuckin’ loose and fast with my baby brother.” His fingers fly in the air in irritation, reaching out for the beer and pausing to down it in thick gulps that stretch and ache the throat. He doesn’t stop, save to take a greedy gulp of air, until the bottle is empty. The green bottle sits with vacancy, Dean’s fingers still possessively tight. “It still…I’m not proud of it, but I’d do the same thing. I’d make those hard choices if it means making sure he survives,” he firmly reiterates, casting his gaze upward to shoot the angel with a hard look. A look that dared Castiel to tell him he went amiss. 

The angel is at a loss of words, unsure of what would be the appropriate response. Dean doesn’t let Cas search and find the words, instead he lets his gaze drop and turn to the entryway of the kitchen. “I miss him, Cas. We live in the same building but it might as well be states away. I hate this….’just colleagues’ relationship bullshit. I miss my brother…” he finishes, words soft and barely audible. 

An awkward silence falls upon them, one Dean can’t ignore or mask by taking a swig from his beer, still empty and hollow. Castile hums to himself before inquiring, “….what will you do to remedy this?” That eases Dean, a focused look settling on his features with his brows pinching together in concentration. 

“I got to just clean up this mess. I have to get rid of Abaddon. Got to…figure the Bartholomew bullshit. But one thing at a time,” he recites out and the angel gives an empathetic look to the hunter.

“Dean… I know you’re hurting. I can see it. However, it sounds like you’re avoiding — ”

“ _ **I’m not avoiding**_ ,” Dean quickly cuts in, rapping his knuckles against the beer bottle subconsciously.

Dean knows from watching Sam head off to Stanford, their father’s death, and every tragedy that has pulled them further into their own graves that a state of avoidance is a good index of the grieving to come. The more lost within his stubborn thinking, paralyzed and numb he feels, the longer and more painful the period of mourning. Maybe this is where he takes after his father… Shoving himself further into his work to avoid the harsh reality and complexity in the relationships around him. Hoping if he just kills this one ugly son of a bitch that all will end well. All will resolve itself. That it’s a bigger nightmare compared to what is sitting next to him at ‘home.’ 

Its blinders he continues to wear himself. Dean won’t admit that his actions were self-oriented, that he could only think of that haunting and ugly feeling of not having his brother by his side — of not being truly alone even though there are allies sitting by his side. That he’s terrified of change and what the loss of Sam can bring. He will only admit that he didn’t think things through. That he did the right thing. That he had good intentions. That he’s holding Sam true to the deal they made during the trials. He did it out of family love. That he did it for Sam, not for him. That he’s being a good brother to Sam. Dean doesn’t want to make sense of Sam’s arguments and cries in protest against his thinking. 

Not yet. There are other things to be accomplished here and maybe…once all is done and the stress is off their plates will it be a bit easier to handle this. 

“So are we going to hug and slow dance till the tears start rolling or are we going to do this?” he asks, brows rising at the angel who is already nodding in agreement to a plan not even divulged to him yet. That pulls a grin — a rarity in light of this grim conversation — across Dean’s face. “Good. I say we go pay Crowley a little visit.”

———————---------------------------------------------

Lucifer is spoiled as was predicted by Sam. He spent the remainder of the day in Kevin and Sam’s company, listening them chat from a variety of topics from the news to the faint rumblings outside of the bunker. The archangel only basks in the physical attention, pampered by the two as he remains tucked under Sam’s large hand. His palm gently hovers over the bird, the heel of his palm brushing Lucifer’s good wing and thumb idly stroking the spot on top of the archangel’s head. Whenever Sam’s hand would move or lift, the sparrow would give a soft peep and follow the hand, only content when the hunter’s hand settles back on him.

The world is a simple and small one for the archangel, at the moment. Hell is so far away. Heaven is a distant concern. He knows that when his strength is recovered, now the barrier between himself and Sam has been engulfed and devoured in blinding Grace, that he will have to give attention to the outside world. While Sam nor Kevin have explicitly explained to him the goings of the world to him, he has eavesdropped enough to understand the corruption sitting in Hell and Heaven. The Winchester Gospels have certainly provided a level of insight on what has manifested after his return to the Cage. Hell and Heaven are nothing but diseased temples that need to be brought down and reconstructed, but such ambitious thoughts sift through the back of his skull with Sam so close. 

It’s one of the sole reasons why he splurges on Sam’s attention when bearing this tiny form. 

There’s a quiet truth and approaching reality that Sam will not showcase this level of connection and positive attention once his Grace no longer needs to substitute this form into a sparrow. The archangel understands he can spend his time dwelling on it but he chooses not to. 

Sam’s soul is anew and alive, admiring its stunning beauty as it radiates a pleasant heat. Entrapped sunbeams and stardust filling the cracks and potholes, creating this mesh and conjoining of Grace given and a soul so broken but defiantly continuing to shine despite its broken bulbs. He wish he could tell Sam the wonder he’s been witnessing since he gave a piece of him to Sam’s soul to utilize. It’s not Grace anymore. It’s not a piece he can simply retrieve or influence. It is Sam’s. It’s a song. It’s liquid gold. It’s an orchestra finally completed. Sam’s soul has been repaired with gold and it is more beautiful than before. Not because of his aid but in this understanding that being previously broken doesn’t take away from the beauty of the Winchester’s soul and being. That Sam is stronger than the broken pieces and each break — each imperfection and flaw — is worthy of praise and celebration. 

That soul is all of Sam’s doing. The transformation originated from Sam.

That is why he chooses not to dwell and pull himself into lonely moments of the possibility of a coming loss. Sam’s soul was engoldened and he smiled in his presence, something the archangel can’t remember viewing when they originally met. These are moments to be spent fully engaged and celebrated. There is something Sam seems fond of when he’s in the image of a song sparrow. Something that derives comfort and happiness that his humanoid form can’t quite provide. That’s okay. While still privy to it, Lucifer wants to be nothing but an admirer to the Winchester’s happiness and continue to incite it. 

Sam’s hands are warm as he cups the sparrow before gently depositing him on one of the pillows on his bed. While certainly there are problems in regards to their interactions and other problems that need to be confronted in the near future, this is what he hoped for. He wanted Sam to be comfortable around him. To allow him to be close. How different it has been from Sam’s gritted ‘yes’ those years ago to the trusting ‘yes’ just a week or so ago, allowing Grace to be so close to his damaged being and bleeding insides. Trusting him to lay his hand and not do the same as Gadreel has done: ransack and overtake. 

He wants to protect Sam. Protect him fiercely and wholly. He doesn’t ever want to betray Sam’s trust. He wants this to continue. He wants to continue the promise he gave Sam those many years ago. He wants to continue the mutual trust they show in the other to grow stronger. Lucifer understands Sam would never harm him or shove him in the depths of the Cage when in a vulnerable state and Sam understands that Lucifer would never take advantage of his being and soul when at his weakest. He wants it to grow. He wants Sam to understand that regardless of whether he is in the shape of a sparrow to the form of Nick, that he would never harm him. That he would never let harm befall upon him. 

The archangel issues out a trill of notes from his spot on the pillow, as if to share that promise to the Winchester one way or another. Sam only smiles at him, taking a seat on the bed. 

“I know, I know,” huffs out with a chuckle just around the corner. Sam doesn’t know what he said but the response pleases the archangel nonetheless. Waiting for Sam to turn off the lights and curl up on his own side of the bed does Lucifer finally join, tucking his head underneath his good wing and falling to sleep. 

Lucifer wakes to pain hours later. 

It’s sharp and a low sound passes through his teeth as he sits up. The archangel stares at hands and legs laying on top of the covers. He’s whole once more and from a cursory glance at his limbs he’s bearing a familiar decayed state. His left arm hurts. Turning to the arm he winces at the remnants of the cast placed on him was clinging onto the hair of his arm, ripped and irritating flesh. His arm feels awkwardly placed and disjointed, carefully letting it rest on his thigh, body hunched forward.

There’s a shifting of a body next to him followed by Sam’s head peering across Lucifer’s frame to eye his arm. “Shit, I was worried about this happening,” he mumbles through a yawn, the bed moving underneath the archangel again. Lucifer winces when the lights are turned on, but he’s able to see Sam now with his hair in a disarray and concern pushing the weariness off of his features. Sam only takes a pause when he sees the lacerations, surprise flashing briefly on his face before continuing forward, shaking his head as if in dismissal. 

“You okay?” Sam asks, fingers reaching out to the archangel’s arm.

“It _hurts_ ,” Lucifer mumbles, carefully holding his arm out and Sam’s mouth twists into a rueful smile at the petulance in the archangel’s voice. 

“Scooch over a bit so I can sit,” Sam informs, the archangel shifting over so Sam can sit by his hip. “I’m not sure how to reapply the bandages when you turn back, so we might have to make a trip back to the vet. But I can fix this,” he makes a motion to Lucifer’s arm, “But we got to get that tape off and it’s going to hurt.” 

The archangel isn’t accustomed to pain that doesn’t dissipate or fade with the will of Grace but his vessel is tearing at the seams. To push at his Grace was to only wear his vessel thin and risk an ungodly series of spontaneous combustion like before. He rather not barter, again, with Nick’s own body parts to heal an area in crucial need. So he is left disgruntled at his own pain, only causing Sam to chuckle under his breath. 

“You’re laughing at my pain,” the archangel issues out in disbelief, Sam lifting his eyes briefly to meet Lucifer’s before turning back to his arm, lips forever pulled into a wide smile. 

“No, I’m not — I’m not laughing at you, Lucifer,” Sam assures, fingers carefully attempting to remove the tape clinging onto the skin and hair on Lucifer’s arm, “I just have never seen you pout before.” Before Lucifer can comment on the situation, Sam abruptly pulls off the already shredded tape off as if pulling a bandaid. Lucifer issues out sharp sound of air and a trapped groan at the abrupt yank, the balls of his feet pushing up towards his body, heels digging into the mattress and right hand fisting into the sheets underneath him. Sam gives a charming smile, perhaps deriving a bit too much pleasure in Lucifer’s response, in the archangel’s peevish opinion. 

Sam moves to fetch something across the room but pauses, as if a thought dawned to him. With a twist of his frame, he makes his way back to Lucifer, offering his hand, “Take my hand.” Lucifer reaches for it without bothering to ask as to why or for what purpose. Sam’s hand is strikingly hot compared to his chilled fingers and Lucifer stares at their clasped hands. “Alright, just do what you did with Kevin. The whole…energy passing thing,” Sam continues, causing the archangel to ah in realization before gently pulling his hand away. 

“No,” the blond replies quietly, shaking his head lightly. 

The hunter gives a shocked look, disbelief quickly coating his face as his head tilts back, eyeing him past his nose. “Wait…what? Why not?” Sam asks. 

Lucifer winces as he tries to make himself comfortable on the bed without disturbing his arm. “I don’t want to use you. I don’t want to give you the impression that you’re just a tool or means to my recovery,” he states bluntly. 

He thinks of the Winchester Gospels. Thinks of that coiled fear and self-loathing Sam continued to wade through when it came to his name mentioned or the fact that they are interlocked in the grand scheme of Fate. How Sam viewed being the Devil’s true vessel as another sign of impurity. He thinks of how Crowley utilized the Winchesters as errand boys on a mad journey to find Purgatory. He thinks of Gadreel, nothing but a tool to the renegade angel’s recovery. He doesn’t want Sam to think that he objectifies him. That he’s nothing but a tool to the Apocalypse. A tool to make him fresh and anew. 

There is more. More that can’t be comprehended or described eloquently in language — a form of mutualism that cannot be truly appreciated with words. There cannot be mutualism if Sam views himself as nothing but a means to the archangel’s endgame. 

Something soft sifts through Sam’s face, taking his bottom lip between his teeth before its released into a smile. “Thank you,” he finally replies and the archangel feels his body relax until the movement of his arm makes him grit his teeth once more. It’s an annoyance of a pain and when he turns back to Sam, his hand is offered out again. “The fact is, Lucifer, is that you saved me. If it wasn’t for you, Kevin would be dead. More people would have been killed. I may have been permanently trapped in a dream and I’m pretty sure it would have led to two things: I get put down or Gadreel gets out later in the game and I’m beyond repair,” Sam reminds, the archangel’s face darkening at the idea of Sam in such states. 

“You’re not using me. I’m repaying a favor. Also…I’m pretty sure I promised you that I’d help you fly. Having a broken arm isn’t going to help,” Sam adds with something akin to fondness sitting on each word. 

Lucifer can’t help but return the smile with his own, taking Sam’s outstretched hand within his own. 

“It will be different with you. Because we are…extensions of each other coding-wise, there are no consequences. It’s just a cycle of energy, but I will only take what is necessary to heal the arm,” he informs and Sam gives a nod. The archangel tilts his head, quietly eyeing Sam who is meeting his gaze with the same quiet curiosity. “It must be verbal affirmation, Sam,” he reminds gently and the hunter shakes his head, laughing in embarrassment at his own forgetfulness. 

“Yes,” Sam laughs out before adding quickly in afterthought, “Yes, to letting me help you heal just your arm.” 

A whoosh of air kicks out of Sam, hand tightening on Lucifer’s at the sudden sensation of…sensory dazzlement. It feels as if he’s witnessing the combustion of a firework but without the loud sound and smell of smoke. It’s just sparks of light of multicolored dancing underneath his eyelids and only to be seen on the darkened screen of flesh. It’s this spill of colors and honeyed notes floating within his skull. He feels energized and bright. Content and full. When his eyes open, he sees nothing but Lucifer with his chin tucked into his chest, eyes closed. It dies down to something slow and soft, murmurs of faded colors and notes dancing about before it stops. 

Sam blinks, surprised that it’s over so soon and observing Lucifer bend his left arm experimentally. 

“That…” Sam’s short of breath, shaking his head in awe, “Was a rush!” 

Lucifer’s lips curl with satisfaction, “It’s called harmonization.” Sam has felt it before. That shared exhilaration but in a greater dosage. Lucifer decides to keep it to himself, instead enjoying the hunter’s features as he revels in the aftermath. There’s color settled on his cheeks and sucking in the air as if he just came back from a run. Sam uses his spare hand to push his fingers through his hair, chest rising and falling with a shaky exhale. “When Kevin lent me a hand, it was a draining experience for him but refreshing for myself,” the archangel clarifies, Sam nodding, “I can’t achieve harmonization with Kevin or with Dean…”

_Just you._

Something troubling flickers across Sam’s face, the lopsided smile on his lips wilting briefly as he pulls his hand out of Lucifer’s instantly. Sam rubs at his hand as if he was burnt but its masked by the resurgence of his smile, his head dropped down to stare at his hand. Lucifer eyes the Winchester for a moment before shifting on the bed, moving his legs to slide himself under the covers, Sam moving off his spot on the bed at the movement. 

“I…don’t even think I’ll be able to sleep. Feel pretty energized,” Sam cuts in through the silence, pacing across the room. “Um…” Sam’s jaw works, eyes searching across his room’s wall for some sort of aid, “I’m going to go walk around a bit. You go ahead and try to sleep. I’ll be back in a bit.” Lucifer nods and Sam leaves the room, flicking the lights off and closing the door quietly after him. 

Sam doesn’t return to the room until it’s ten in the morning and the bunker is alive with activity.


	12. Nodus Tollens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **nodus tollens**  
>  _n._ the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand...
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**SIX WEEKS FṞ̷OM̰ N̳͕O͇̜͎W̝͙…**

Sam has never seen Dean so wound up. Teeth barred and mouth working so fast his teeth clicks with each word. “We were never safe to begin with the minute you let that piece of shit in!” Dean is howling and Sam can taste the fear off each note that scrapes out of his gullet. Dean’s scared, too. He can’t stop pacing, staring nervously and jabbing his finger at the bleeding Devil in the middle of the bunker’s makeshift cell. The fear is overwhelming and suffocating, his pores feeling clogged with the emotion and creating grease over his skin. Sam can’t stop himself from rubbing the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead. 

He’s never felt so lost. 

“This was supposed to be our home, Sam! Our home! Who is to say that tomorrow we won’t find all of Heaven and Hell knocking at our door thanks to him?!” Sam doesn’t know what to say. He can only stare helplessly at his brother who is on a verbal rampage, shouting at the blond who frowns at the Winchester’s barbs. But there is that glint of knowledge at the situation, as if Lucifer already dug to the heart of the matter and was left wondering when Dean, too, would drop the pretenses. “You know what… You know what I think,” Dean’s voice begins low, a new train of thought maneuvering his verbiage in a destructive direction, “I think that the reason he keeps himself like this is to suck you in.” His words and thoughts begin to wildly pick up in speed, “Sympathy for the devil bullshit! Are you listening to me?!”

Dean only pauses to suck the air in for breath, “Why else would he do this?! He’s been tricking you! _Sam, he lied!_ This is to get inside your head again, Sam. So that when he’s ready to fucking go, he can just jump right on into you — ”

“ ** _Enough, Dean!_** ” Sam snarls, turning on his sibling who only glowers in return. “You need to calm down,” the youngest bites out slowly. Dean only sneaks a glance past Sam’s shoulder before spinning on his heel, slamming the room’s door violently behind him. The gloom of the lit bulbs behind them is left keeping them both company. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe Sam doesn’t want to truly see the devil in completion, yet he can’t help trying to.

Lucifer’s borrowed clothes are stained in blood and his nose looks severely broken, the ridge jutting out as flesh swells amongst it. The archangel looks haggard and worn in the seat, chains thick on his neck and cuffs heavy on his wrist, scrawled on with permanent marker Enochian sigils and the cell adorned with equally new symbols. Lucifer works his jaw until it pops, issuing out a sigh, “You know these bindings and chains will not hold me.” 

Sam nods. He knows. There’s nothing in the bunker or some convenient marking that can stop the Devil. Sam doubts a circle of holy oil would stop the archangel from finding some way to break through it. “I know,” he repeats his affirmation out loud, “But I know that you won’t break through them because I’m telling you not to.” It sounds nothing short from stupid but he knows it to be true. Lucifer lets his head move down to stare at the iron on his wrists, body easing into the uncomfortable seat as if on command. Lucifer idly rubs the blood on the pads of his fingers together before tilting his head up. Sam can almost see the blue in the archangel’s eyes in the darkness of the cell. 

“I have been waiting for you in a cell for a very long time,” Lucifer states gently, “And I will still continue to wait for you.” 

This is where it all ends.

——————————————————————————————————————————

**PRESENT DAY…**

Sam still lingers on his fingertips. The echoes of symbioses contingent off of an understanding and buzzing with pure creation. It’s the residual vibrations of strings being plucked from a timeless tune. He rubs the pads of his fingers together, sprawled underneath the covers and tired around the edges. He spent the night waiting for Sam to return, staring at the door in the dark and waiting to feel the bed sink as a familiar frame thumps in exhaustion beside him. It never comes to fruition and it’s a night of restlessness and thoughts swarming. 

He must have misspoke last night. 

It wasn’t his intention to frighten Sam, just relish in their enthusiasm as an understanding is achieved, once more, between them. To find mutual understanding with Sam is all he seeks and they found it once more — a third time, now. Once when Sam and him walked as one, when Sam let him near after demolishing Gadreel to patch a fractured soul and when Sam sought to heal him. 

Lucifer craved quintessence of self. When the melding of the two is at its purest and absolute truth — its very foundations and heart — is achieved. It’s a shrugging off of ignorance. An ultimate acceptance that looks past and yet sees all. For two halves to be whole but not in a physical manner. Lucifer sought this unification on a level akin to spiritual and thought, for the two separate halves to see the other as protectors and equals. True equality. That they be the glue and the driving force for the other as it should be between true vessel and archangel.

It’s not so much a notion of romanticism but of transcendence. 

Wasn’t he the one to watch over Sam and keep him safe? Yet the tables seem incredibly turned and the Devil has been under the care of a human. It feels like a step towards that pure form of equality. But the fact that Sam can be…repelled by him sits like a cold shiver in his chest, settling in his core and aching. A cruel thought manifested in sensation that despite the divine right the two hold on each other as other halves, Lucifer may not be accepted as Sam’s other piece. That, in the end, it is irregardless whether they were meant for the other or not, it will never come to pass.

It’s a moment of nodus tollens for the Morningstar. 

So Lucifer burns a little brighter through his vessel in the darkness of the room. He burns and burns until flesh peels back and the humanoid form he has grown familiar with breaks down. He burns through uncertainty. He won’t deny there is something of malice — directed at himself and this body composed of cosmic wiring — shaking through his frame. Malice and a disappointed hurt that each moment of understanding seems to lead to some form of distance. He burns and pushes out of Nick until his Grace flutters like a little bird while trying to simultaneously maintain form until Lucifer flutters with it. Wings stretch and flap as he struggles to maneuver across the mattress and sheets. Each wobbly step creates suds of frustration, little feet getting caught in the sheets. The only showing that Nick may have been present was in the specks and droplets of blood on the floor and the side of the mattress. 

The archangel eyes the mountain of a sheet and comforter kicked and standing in his way, giving an exasperated response in the sound of a low whistle.

Sam finds Lucifer around ten in the morning, a little bump underneath the sheets making angry sounds as it struggles to navigate itself out of this maze he inexplicably put himself in. The archangel is annoyed and exhausted until the sheets and comforter are pulled back, the room spilled with light and Sam staring down at him with a barely contained spill of laughter. Lucifer can only marvel of the wonders of this little frame and the effects it will always pull from Sam. 

Sam crouches down so he’s eye level with Lucifer who is warily making his way towards the hunter. The bird tilts its head to watch Sam better, observing him work his jaw and give an acknowledging look of discomfort. “I…I’m sorry I left you alone by yourself last night. I just needed some time to think,” Sam apologizes and Lucifer bobs his head in a sign of understanding. But he doesn’t completely understand. Doesn’t understand how Sam can address and show him an acute form of affection when manifested in such a tiny frame and yet when he is of a similar appearance to Sam’s, the dynamics are starkly different. Lucifer doesn’t view himself as needy by forcing himself to maintain this form. He just enjoys this level of familiarity and intimacy, something he has been grotesquely deprived off for the majority of his existence. 

“Looks like you didn’t get much sleep, huh?” he sighs softly, moving a finger to rub the top of the sparrow’s head, earning a watery peep. Sam is gentle and kind with him when he’s smaller than a clenched fist. With selfishness he seeks the safety and shelter Sam’s hands give him and he is rewarded with blossoming smiles and laughter. It’s a dangerous thought to continue what just passed. To burn through his vessel to keep himself in this little form. The price is the inability to ever truly connect — Grace meeting soul — with Sam but… 

Sam sees him of value when he’s in this form. They act as if they are two pieces meant to be whole.

The thought sounds strange within itself, amiss and off-key. How bewildering it is to know Sam Winchester inside and out and yet there is a mystery. There is something he can’t quite state with certainty and the angel, that sharpens his teeth off knowledge, is left floundering in the unknown. This isn’t a path written out. There isn’t a script written after Revelations of the Devil meeting with a reluctant Messiah. Divine right isn’t present in this story. It’s a hard pill to swallow that the fear of not knowing the end result of each interaction with Sam — this profoundly independent being — is what pushes him to remain small. Pushes him to remain safe in this little form and the flare of catharsis singes the song sparrow.

 _The Morningstar is afraid_ , it burns in realization at his pride. 

Sam gently maneuvers himself on the bed, lying on his side and patting at the spot next to his collarbone. Like a recipient of Pavlov’s experiment, he waddles forward to the hunter and clambers with small noises onto the pillow where the crook of Sam’s neck is present. He burrows himself into the pillow and presses his frame against Sam’s neck that moves against him. 

It’s utterly irritating, these rampageous thoughts. He…he was doing this for Sam’s benefit. If being in this form provides a level of comfort to the hunter, than he will gladly abide to it. Certainly the benefits are Sam’s level of attention. Lucifer makes a series of muffled sounds underneath his wing as he tucks his head in, pushing himself further so he’s tucked underneath Sam’s chin. 

He needs to have faith.

Faith, that regardless of whether his vessel is fully healed, Sam will not rebuke him. He will not send him back into the Cage or tell him to leave. Faith that the Sam that flinched and found self-loathing in being tied to the Devil is not the same Sam that is coaxing him to take this moment to sleep. 

The perusing through The Winchester Gospels, however, has left him wary on the relinquishing of such faith. A leap of faith is required and the drop is steep.

With a deflated sound, the song sparrow closes its eyes and forces itself to sleep. His faith has long ago been whittled down by the fires of Creation and a great Fall. He doesn’t want to experience silence and solitude again.

————————————————————————————————————————

It’s an hour until he’s gently woken up, allowing himself to tumble sleepily into Sam’s warm hands as he’s carried outside of the room. He opens his beak as if imitating a yawn, eyes still closed until Sam is chuckling at him. Stepping off Sam’s hands, the little sparrow finds the table underneath him with a bowl of water and bird seeds being presented to him.

Opening his eyes, Lucifer finds a hawk eyeing him from across the table, large talons gripping the edge of a chair. Contempt rolls off the sparrow, lifting its little head up as if to peer down its beak, giving a haughty sound. He admires Castiel’s tenacity and drive, but his foolishness permeates from each feather. There is no need for him to be at his prime to see the wrongness sitting inside Castiel. That Grace is not his. It is ill-fitted. It sings a different song and the noise is loud and clashing. While sufficient for the short run, the consequences are great and it already speaks in volumes with the angel in the presence of a bird. So he finds no reason to be intimidated by his sibling’s greater frame, instead taking great relish in picking at his food. 

“Lucifer, stop taunting him,” Sam mumbles over his cup of coffee, eyeing the antsy hawk systematically uncurling and curling its talons. 

The song sparrow makes a little sound in begrudging compliance. He has always admired Castiel in a way a mentor admires a potential student. To freely think outside of Heaven’s thought prison was meant to be commended, but while the archangel is far removed from his home, his roots still remain. To take another’s Grace — another’s identity and construct — was blasphemy. He is no better than demons and Man who take and take without permission. 

“I’m not doing this again,” Dean bellows out, moving from the entrance of the kitchen and holding out the wooden cutting board of what appears to be dissected rats. The eldest hunter makes a disgusted face at what is in his hands, holding it from a distance as Castiel stretches its body in interest. Sam’s lips curl slightly in disturbance, eyeing the contents with wariness as Dean slides it onto the table.

“No way, Dean, get that off the table. That’s not happening here!” Sam complains, Dean making an exasperated sound as he picks it up. “Dude, I can smell it form here.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to do this?!” 

“Put it outside! Or in the kitchen!” Sam huffs back in exasperation, the archangel pausing in its meal to watch both brothers feed each other a strange passing of annoyance over eviscerated rats. “That’s gross, Dean.”

“ ** _Ya think?_** ” Dean heaves back with dripping sarcasm, the scene amusing to the Morningstar. A pleased little noise escapes, doing a full body shudder where each feather ripples with a light shake, wings stretching briefly. “Hey, you, be lucky it ain’t you on the friggen’ cutting board. I did my research. You fit right on in with Cas’ diet,” the Winchester snaps with irritation, struggling to jab a finger at him without having to part a hand with the heavy cutting board. 

“ _Really, Dean?_ ”

“I’m sorry! Okay?” Dean heaves out, shaking his head before heading towards the exit to the bunker, grumbling for Castiel to follow. The hawk peers curiously at Lucifer, bends low before moving effortlessly, swooping past the song sparrow’s head with a piercing shriek. Lucifer retaliates with an irritated noise, dying into angry hiccups of sound as each feather on his frame stands on edge. 

Sam watches with a bemused look the little bird angrily walk across the table, disgruntled staccato noises leaving his mouth, chest rising and falling rapidly to accompany each breath. Sam moves his hand, laying the newspaper on the table as he gently curls his offered palm. Lucifer spots the gesture immediately and moves towards it, legs working furiously before tucking itself underneath Sam’s palm. 

If the archangel could glower in the form of a petite bird, he would. The lack of respect and the inability to fight back irritated the archangel, but Sam’s palm soothed and muted his heated noises, a litany of threats and curses leaving his beak in musical notes. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam soothes, a thumb moving to rub the top of Lucifer’s head. This is why he doesn’t want to change back. “Don’t worry,” the hunter mumbles lightly under his breath, returning his gaze back to the newspaper until only light notes leave the song sparrow. 

Dean returns with the cutting board empty and Castiel not in tow, perhaps still outside picking at his dish. He returns with his hands a bright shade of red from scalding hot water and a disgruntled look on his face, laying his hands on top of one of the chair’s backs. “Anyways, so, Sam…” he begins conversationally, eyes pinned on the tiny ball of feathers secure under Sam’s hand, “I need to walk the dog today.”

Sam makes a face, brows and forehead scrunched together as he takes a sip of his coffee. He licks his lips when he puts the mug down, “Excuse me?” 

“You know… _the dog_ ,” Dean stresses, eyeing Lucifer who seems intrigued once more by bird seeds before moving his eyes in the direction behind him. Dean watches the archangel leave the safety of Sam’s hand to pick at its breakfast. “Ugly little thing. Likes to yap back. Metal collar. _The dog_ ,” Dean continues on, waving his hand about as he shoots Sam a look. 

Sam’s frown surges across his face, glancing at Lucifer before gritting out his response through clenched teeth, “Why the hell do you need to do that, Dean?”  “So I can…take care of that red-headed bitch — you know, can you just meet me outside for a bit?” the eldest hisses out, hand moving to slap at the side of his thigh, “I’m not doing this here.” His head nods in the direction of Lucifer, dark eyes watching Dean, now, in silence. Sam works his jaw but nods, slipping out of his chair. Lucifer doesn’t move, just watches the two Winchesters disappear in the direction of the observatory.

“Look, I need Crowley to help me find this first blade which, apparently, will kill Abaddon,” Dean spits out, not bothering to beat around the bush as he maneuvers himself so he can watch the observatory’s entrance. Sam makes a face, not sure what on earth a ‘first blade’ is.

“ _Apparently?_ ” Sam issues out with unhidden distrust, “And you’re going to trust Crowley? On this ‘first blade’ — Dean, I’ve never read or heard anything about this!” 

Dean looks upset at the resistance, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this, Sam, is that so hard?!” the eldest snaps back, voice and hackles raised at the lack of an agreement. Sam’s tongue curls in his mouth, disbelief settling on his face and Dean realizes he must have said something amiss. Cursing under his breath, he holds his hands up in a sign of surrender, “Look, I’m bringing Cas with me as backup so if shit goes south I got him to back me up.”

Sam pushes his fingers through his hair and moves away from his sibling, creating distance between the both of them. His hand slides down to his mouth, thumb and index finger pinching his lips. “Did you forget that Crowley has been screwing us over since day one?” he twists his frame, the hand on his mouth moving so his palm is facing up, letting the upper half of his body lean forward to emphasize his dissent, “That he tried to keep Bobby’s soul in Hell? That he killed Kevin’s mom? That he screwed us over with Purgatory — ”

“ _Okay, okay_ ,” Dean cuts in loudly, “I get it! Crowley is a son of a bitch. I got it, but I have Cas. So I got it handled.” 

The youngest sighs through his nose, not satisfied with the response or the entirety of the situation. “…when are you planning on heading out?” Sam asks after a moment of silence.   
“Today.” 

“So you weren’t planning on taking me along,” Sam clarifies with minced words. 

Dean laughs, a sardonic smile pulling at his lips as his eyes narrow in angered incredulity, “Well, I didn’t know you were interested. Seems like you’re busy with the friggen’ Devil.” His hand raises and he points a finger past Sam, “Second of all, on that note, wasn’t his wing all fucked up?” 

“It’s better now,” Sam quietly answers. He can’t tell Dean that last night he gave his consent to the Devil once more. Sam still hasn’t told Dean what Lucifer did with his soul. That Lucifer healed him. As far as Dean knows, Lucifer pulled Gadreel out and killed him. Sam can’t fight the heat crawling up his neck and into his jawline, opting to ducking his head. 

“I’m… I’m not going to even touch that one yet,” Dean answers and the disappointment feels heavy on Sam’s shoulders. He decides not to look his brother in the eye, instead readjusting his body posture so his arms are crossed before his chest. “Look, point is, I can handle this. This is my burden to bear. I’m going to make shit straight and this is how you do it. Take out Abaddon. Take out Metatron. Done deal,” Dean recites with too much ease but Sam doesn’t bother to dive into it, to let the cogs of his brain churn and pick it apart. He doesn’t attempt to dwell on the fact that Dean still doesn’t get it even after all their conversations. 

Instead, Sam feels ashamed. Feels as if he did something wrong, again, and disappointed his brother. Didn’t live up to some standard and it grates on Sam’s nerves that he is feeling this. That he feels this when he shouldn’t. 

“I thought this was what you wanted,” Dean adds, voice louder as if noticing Sam wasn’t paying attention to him. 

Sam pulls his head up, sucking on his bottom lip briefly to meet his brother’s sharp gaze, “Dean… You know what, okay. Go ahead. I’m not going to stop you.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,“ Dean replies with exasperation and insincerity. He eyes Sam, as if waiting for Sam to quickly change his mind or protest, but it never comes. Dean scowls and pushes past Sam. The youngest can’t help but feel guilty that he’s grateful that Dean’s heading out.

——————————————————————————————————————————

“I’m gong to be honest here, all the information I got on this is still from the Internet,” Sam gives an embarrassed laugh, closing the door of the bunker behind him as the warm spring air greets them both. It's been a while since he practiced with Lucifer, having to refresh his memory on how to do a few of the strengthening exercises. Lucifer sings out a short little song and Sam takes it as amusement, carefully letting Lucifer down on the floor.

The little bird seems to be more than pleased at being outdoors once more, already beginning to explore.

Sam knows Lucifer won’t attempt a mad dash away from the bunker. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but he knows Lucifer won’t leave him. There’s something comforting about it that scares Sam. But watching the song sparrow hop about in the dirt, examining its surroundings pushes his thoughts away on the matter. The miniature bird picks at a spot of loose dirt before giving a pleased chip, burying its little body into the dirt, wings fluttering by its side. 

Sam gives a loose grin and takes a seat on a patch of grass, watching the sparrow burrow itself deeper into the dust as its wings shake and flutter. “I can’t believe I’m watching the devil take a dustbath,” Sam comments before adding teasingly, “Is this where they get the term dust devil from?” The bird pauses to look at the Winchester, giving an unamused sort of sound that makes Sam laugh. Lucifer picks at its own damaged wings for a moment before crawling out of its little trench of dirt. 

The hunter can’t help but smile, pleased to see the archangel briefly tend to its wings, haven’t witnessing the act before. Lucifer makes a sound and stretches its previously damaged wing when he nears Sam’s knee. Sam frowns and leans forward before humming in realization, as if Lucifer heard his thoughts. Fingers reach out to carefully rub the sheathe off a few pin feathers. 

Growth. 

His feathers were growing in and rapidly, Sam blinking in amazement at how just a few seconds of him healing Lucifer has created this. 

“You got more feathers than before. They’re very beautiful,” Sam compliments and Lucifer shudders with pride, the feathers on his chest sticking out in obnoxious angles. The hunter grins, gently rolling the remaining sheathes before drawing back. “Hey do…your wings as a bird reflect — you know — your own wings? Real wings?” Sam asks curiously and the bird sings something out, a reminder to Sam that communicating to Lucifer in the form of a bird is difficult. The hunter shakes his head, giving an apologetic smile, “I’ll remember to ask you about it later.” 

The world is easier when his worries and concerns revolve around the care of a little bird. He appreciates these moments, more so now that the knowledge that he is truly free and whole is at the forefront of his mind. His soul is repaired. He’s pure. All those moments of feeling like walking scum and toxic waste has dissipated from his thoughts knowing he has been…saved. His body is his own. His soul is his own. It feels refreshing and wholesome, as if a heavy weight has finally been lifted from him. Each problem must be solved one step at a time, Sam having no interest in stressing over the overwhelming multitude of woes like his brother. 

Dean still is running away from the problem between them and Sam can’t force him to understand. He’s not sure if Dean will ever understand and the only thing Sam is certain of is that he will have to respond with the same mindset: one step at a time. 

Sam smiles to himself, pleased with this little nugget of self-made wisdom, as he holds out his index finger out to Lucifer. “Okay, so get on,” Sam instructs, the song sparrow stepping onto Sam’s finger. It's been a while since they've attempted this again. “So these little practices will help strengthen and exercise your wings. Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam reminds and the little bird chirps in response. 

Slowly lifting his finger and the bird further away from the ground, he carefully drops his finger back down, instantly inciting Lucifer’s wings to stretch out. Wings beat at the air, as if expecting to be dropped, little talons clutching tighter at Sam’s finger. Sam can't quite remember the practice from before but Lucifer's wings look different than he last remembered, stretched out and adamantly beating at the air. Sam comes to a slow halt, giving a grin, “Good, good. Let’s do it again.” 

They repeat the practice for the next ten minutes until Lucifer is panting, Sam gently letting Lucifer get off his hand to settle down in the grass. The hunter lets his thumb rub the spot behind the archangel’s head, earning a tired but grateful peep. 

“Want to go back inside and get some water?” Sam asks and the bird bobs its head, standing up and sticking its foot out expectantly. The bird soon is scooped into Sam’s hand, lifted up to his shoulder where the archangel settles comfortably on its spot next to the hunter’s neck. “You did really good. If we keep up practicing and you keep up growing new feathers, I don’t think this will take very long,” Sam hypothesizes and Lucifer shares his excitement with an answering peep, tilting its head up to lightly preen Sam’s hair. 

Sam is slow with his movements, not wanting to disturb Lucifer as he maneuvers himself in the kitchen, pulling out a small bowl and a water bottle. 

“Hey, you going to keep on fixing my hair or do you want some water?” the brunette chuckles and Lucifer stops, letting himself be moved onto the bunker’s outstretched tables. While Sam will never admit it to Dean, this makes him happy. These little antics and gestures have a way of dissipating the negativity hovering around and outside the bunker. It’s been so long since he laughed without it feeling forced. It’s been so long since he’s experienced a lighthearted moment that wasn’t bred or will breed into disaster and tragedy. It’s been so long since he allowed himself to be happy — if not just for a moment. 

Settling down on the table, Sam watches Lucifer greedily gulp down the water provided.

“You know I didn’t quite know you boys were so fixated on chains. As kinky as it is, it’s beginning to chafe,” a graveled voice breaks through the pleasant silence, Sam’s head jerking upward too fast that it leaves his muscles burning in irritation. He grimaces and cups the side of his neck, rubbing at the flesh.

“Will you shut your goddamn trap?” Dean’s voice answers, and it’s too late for Sam to scoop up Lucifer and move them into his room. Both Dean, Castiel and Crowley emerged from the doorway. Crowley is still wearing the shackles on his wrist, the heavy metal on his neck and ankles removed. Castiel is whole once more, sporting an interesting bruise on the side of his face to his ear, and staring intently at Crowley’s back. 

Dean swears under his breath when his eyes land on Sam and the sparrow on the table. Lucifer is fixated and staring at Crowley, neck stretching and body seeming to expand with each feather standing in alertness. Dean responds by shoving Crowley to walk faster, earning an irritated sound in protest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know we were in a hurry — ah, Moose!” Crowley gives a greased-up smile, trying to maintain eye contact with Sam as he is continuing to be pushed elsewhere. “My favorite Winchester. Come to kiss me goodbye?” 

Lucifer finally speaks. An angry barrage of noises, high and grating to the ear that it takes everyone by surprise. Crowley finally notices the bird, brows pinching together at the strangeness of a bird sitting on a table within the bunker. His mouth opens, a baffled twist taking over his lips before issuing out lowly, “Well, well, well, isn’t that interesting…”


	13. Navigating Through Broken Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer learns of what is left of Heaven and Hell.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copy infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks and shoutout to [Callmedesdinova](http://callmedesdinova.tumblr.com/) for being my beta for this chapter!

Sam immediately senses anger from the little bird, watching the sparrow pace and eye the door that Crowley and his entourage disappeared through. The hunter forgot, momentarily, that the relationship between Crowley and Lucifer was built off of animosity. Crowley betrayed Hell that once shouted loyalty to Lucifer, handing them the Colt along with helping them locate one of the Horsemen. Crowley grabbed a throne that was Lucifer’s, shoving a crown on his head. Sam forgot Meg, a Lucifer loyalist who has been from Hell and back, dragged, beaten and killed like a disobedient pet by Crowley. Forgot that all of Lucifer’s loyalists have been hunted down and eradicated under the new regime.

Something about it makes the faint comings of sickness and guilt sit in his stomach like an ugly premonition. 

Sam doesn’t think Lucifer is aware of anything past the Cage, and he’s grateful for that. Grateful that he isn’t aware that this manufactured support system that once awaited his arrival was no longer present. 

It’s safer if Lucifer doesn’t know what has been shaking the Earth since his reentry into incarceration. Sam knows Lucifer would be far from pleased, and he wants to keep these two worlds separate, perhaps more out of selfishness than survival. He’d rather keep Lucifer apart from the current world events. Ignorance is bliss, after all. 

The hunter tries to soothe the little bird, bribing the archangel with sweet fruit, but Lucifer doesn’t take. The bird makes quiet little noises at him and finally sits near Sam on the table, staring determinedly at the exit. Lucifer doesn’t respond when Sam moves his finger to rub at the spot behind its head. The Winchester draws his hand back and gives a heavy sigh. 

It feels like a waiting game and Sam spends the time mulling over imaginary conversations and dialogue between Lucifer and himself. 

In the end, one cannot deny the push and pull of energy. Regardless of the disintegration of Lucifer’s own vessel through effort, Sam still heals him. His soul still beckons and seeks Lucifer’s Grace, feeding it ambrosia and it doesn’t take long till Lucifer is whole in the middle of the day while in the library. His limbs ache with exertion of today’s exercise with his wings. It’s a pleasant soreness that speaks of success that belies the disappointment drifting through his headspace. 

Lucifer stretches on the loveseat he was deposited on by Sam, ribcage lifting as he extends his arms above him. As much as it is Lucifer’s intent to keep himself as a sparrow — a shape Sam seems more receptive to — he needs to have this conversation. Sam watches him stretch, a yellowed tome settled on his lap and eyes counting the blisters and sores across the softness of the archangel’s belly and sides. 

The archangel eyes Sam, gauging his reactions, a bit curious by the lack of surprise or shock at his sudden change. Sam stares quietly for a moment before clearing his throat and turning his head away as if realizing he was being rude or invasive. “Um…we need to get you clothes,” Sam fumbles out, getting onto his feet far too quickly, the tome tumbling off his lap and making a short gesture with his hand in the direction of his room. There’s an embarrassed huff of laughter pushing past Sam’s chapped lips as he bends down to pick up the spilled tome, perhaps too eager to put it away, crossing the room immediately. 

The archangel follows with the light slapping of bare feet against the waxed concrete underneath them. Flipping the lights on when he enters his room, he rummages through the drawers for clothes. Sam can feel the archangel’s gaze burrowing into his back, waiting for him to initiate the conversation, but Sam doesn’t give. Instead he fixates his train of thought on what would fit Lucifer comfortably. He still has a few worn Stanford shirts he’s saved as mementos and in a quiet, barely existing hope that maybe he could return. He thinks those shirts would fit Lucifer’s broad shoulders.  
 The rotting archangel doesn’t give him the luxury of silence. There’s so much that needs to be said. Conversations and questions that need to arise but have been put on hold due to the slight communication problem between the hunter and bird. He would rather be small and nesting in the warmth of Sam’s palm, free from this latent distress and tension that dances about in their interactions, but to see an old antagonist to his workings was troubling. Especially if the Winchesters were housing him. 

“Why was Crowley here?” Lucifer inquires, a cold flint of steel weighing each word down. 

Sam doesn’t respond, his shoulders are rigid and hands are still mechanically moving through the clothes. A sound of frustration passes through the archangel’s mouth, momentary at a loss of how he can ever achieve some sort of true level of communication with Sam. He doesn’t quite understand how he can prove to Sam that he is worthy of trust, so he allows his irritation to saturate on his tongue.    


“I don’t understand, Sam. You can’t trust me with current day events, but you trust me enough to fall asleep right next to you?” Lucifer issues out bluntly, brows and shoulders rising and falling in a daring gesture towards Sam. A gesture Sam doesn’t see with his back turned to him. The brunette doesn’t know how to respond, feeling the column of his neck grow warm. He petulantly wants to say that “it’s just different” or that he has more control in that area in contrast to feeding Lucifer information. In the end he can’t give Lucifer a response. 

Sam finally turns when he pulls out sweatpants, meeting Lucifer’s challenging look, frozen blues eyes alight. He thumbs the soft material underneath his hands, dragging his eyes down to eye Lucifer’s hips. They’re wider than his and surely this will do for now, certain his jeans wouldn't be compatible with Lucifer’s frame. He busies his mind with trivial matters but Lucifer’s statement lays heavy in the air. Lucifer’s right. Why the hell is he keeping Lucifer so close in one area but at arm’s length in others? 

The hunter hands Lucifer the sweatpants, the archangel’s shoulders dropping in hushed disbelief. He wanted an answer, not the passing of apparel. Lucifer moves forward and takes it, the upper half of his body bending as he lifts a leg to slip on the sweatpants. Sam watches his movements before turning to find one of his old Stanford shirts. 

It’s easier to fixate on Lucifer’s appearance, lesions scattered across his broad frame to the softness of his belly. When Lucifer is whole, even though his body shows signs of deterioration, there is something strikingly more real about their interactions. Sam still feels that newness and otherworldliness, finding more certainty when it comes to interacting with a song sparrow than with the interactions of an archangel. An archangel who once vowed to sow the world with Mankind’s blood until they return to dust. Sam feels he can predict Lucifer’s actions as a bird in contrast to Lucifer appearing human. 

The reality of their — well, whatever this sort of arrangement is — is vividly clear before Sam in these moments. Sam turns back with one of his old college shirts, from a time where he was far more comfortable swimming in his clothes to hide his awkward body. Lucifer takes the shirt and the silence between them is deafening. Their miscommunication is a tumultuous and blasting roar of noises unheard yet felt. 

Sam acknowledges he’s been keeping Lucifer in the dark. He hasn’t discussed Crowley being locked in their bunker prison. Hasn’t discussed the status of Heaven and Hell. Sam can’t continue to separate Lucifer from the problems surrounding them, but a fear peeks out: What will Lucifer do in response? What will Lucifer do when he is fully healed? What will Dean think? Is he safe? Dean would surely throw a fit and try to blow Lucifer's brains out before even daring to update Lucifer. Will Lucifer pursue him as a vessel once more, especially with his own vessel still stuck in a state of rot? Will he leave?

“Sam,” Lucifer breathes out imploringly, shaking him out of his own barrage of questions. 

The hunter seeks out the bed to take a seat, unsure of where to begin and how much to share. Sam realizes quietly that not only is he concerned over Lucifer’s response in hearing of what happened with Heaven, he doesn’t quite fully trust himself in fully trusting Lucifer. He’s scared of what will happen if he treats Lucifer the way Lucifer treats him: as his other half. What will the price be, if there is a price? Is it going to lead to a repeat of promises of an apocalyptic sun? 

Maybe the words came spilling out of his mouth, for the archangel gives a wounded look as if he’s been struck. “I would never hurt you,” he defends quietly and Sam can’t even force himself to nod. He can only look away and swallow the saliva in his mouth. Sam can’t shake off the unnerving ripple of energy crawling underneath his skin, not able to find any give for comfort in this situation. Lucifer makes a clicking sound with his tongue and moves to the desk in Sam’s room, increasing the space between them as he takes a seat on the chair. 

Sam watches Lucifer take a seat, adorned in his old Stanford gear. Watching Lucifer wear his old hopes and dreams. 

“Well, Crowley became the King of Hell. Still is, I guess. Heaven was…busy warring with itself. Both sides were hunting for these two tablets: an angel tablet and a demon tablet. We found the angel tablet in one of your crypts?” Sam’s hand waves in the air as he responds with a deep breath, shooting a questioning look at Lucifer who is frowning at a spot above his head. 

He knew of Crowley taking his throne from The Winchester Gospels Kevin procured for him but not of this search for the tablets. Blue eyes catch Sam’s gaze, the angel giving a nod. Sam seems relieved by the gesture and the lack of heated fury at hearing Crowley was wearing the crown.   
“The tablets were created to defend Man. They were Mankind’s defense and only Man — a prophet — can decipher the tablets,” Lucifer commented in thought, shifting in his seat as if he was bothered by the lack of comfort he could gain from the wooden chair. He shifts his body so he can straddle the chair, resting his forearms on the back. “I covered it in stone. I stole it,” he adds with a rueful smile, leaning forward into his seat. “I plucked it and I hid it deep so that Man may never harm my family or the place I once called home.”

Something suddenly catches on the archangel’s face, sitting up straight and staring at Sam with a curious sort of glow. “Did you step inside? Did you see the crypt?” He adds in afterthought, “I built it underneath an orchard.” 

Sam can’t shake off the strange sensation that the fact it was built underneath an orchard was for Sam’s benefit or meant to impress him. Sam shakes his head. “No… I… I actually just stayed outside to keep watch as Dean and Cas searched for it.” 

“Ah,” Lucifer hums, letting his chin rest on the top of his forearms. Sam can’t help but imagine that he witnessed disappointment, but he doesn’t broach the topic any further. 

“So Hell — Crowley — got a hold of the demon tablet. He wanted to make a trade for the angel tablet. We tricked him, got him locked up and…used — well, almost used him for the last trial to shut the gates of Hell,” Sam continues, watching Lucifer closely as he chooses his words carefully. 

The Morning Star only cocks his head, brows furrowed once more and Sam expects backlash. Expects to feel the heated burn of Lucifer’s anger at his kingdom nearly being shut by his own true vessel. But Lucifer only gives a sad smile, as if there was a tragic truth to it all — that he knows Sam wanted to die and it only makes Sam shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Um…oh and Abaddon is about. She followed our grandfather who jumped through into our time and now wants a piece of the pie,” Sam adds hurriedly, not feeling comfortable sharing with Lucifer that one of his infamous Knights of Hell is currently prowling about. But it catches Lucifer’s attention, brows rising in interest and Sam is quick to continue on, “During this time, Metatron was helping Castiel figure out the angel tablet — ”

Lucifer interjects with mild surprise, head cocking sharply to the right, Enochian spilling past his mouth in question. Lucifer’s face twists from surprise to irritation. “A lousy scribe who repeatedly would slander me,” the archangel bitterly huffs out, eyes closed and brows pinched together. “Last I heard he left when Father left…” Sam can see Lucifer already wondering what role Metatron has to play in this story, trying to piece together what Sam is slowly filling. 

“Well it looks like he got over his writer’s block because he’s back and is…” Sam replies sardonically, fingers flicking in the air for searching for the appropriate term to describe Metatron. “A douchebag,” the hunter settles on, Lucifer’s lips twisting into a smile, giving a hum in agreement. “Anyways, so he actually completed the spell on the angel tablet and…well, all the angels fell,” Sam continues on, feeling a bit loose with the agreement that Metatron was nothing but a problem. Feeling a bit at ease at how easy this retelling of events is going, Lucifer attentive and commenting when needed. But it’s that piece of knowledge of Heaven dumped onto Earth that draws Lucifer instantly on his feet. 

The bunker shakes underneath Sam’s feet, the bulbs in the room giving electrical whines before bursting in their open cages of lampshades and glass. Sam grips the bed for support, wide-eyed and staring up at the blond. The light in the room is steadily going out, leaving a singular bulb to sputter out a dying light. Sam swears through the flashes that he sees them… That he sees wings and it leaves Sam briefly choking on his own rising fear and bursts of awe. 

“ _What?!_ ” Lucifer’s voice shakes with anger, low and coated in layers of friction and grit. Blue eyes settle on Sam’s face before moving elsewhere, as if thoughts are bombarding and rushing violently around him as his eyes struggle to examine them all. Lucifer fixates on a spot on the wall before issuing out a questioning sound. “You kept this from me?!” he adds with bewilderment, refocusing on Sam. The Winchester can taste the betrayal in his tone like battery acid on his tongue. 

“Lucifer — _hold on_ — ” Sam pushes himself on his feet, holding his hands out in surrender at the archangel whose lips are curled into a snarl, turning his head to glare furiously at the wall. The floor still trembles with residual anger and somewhere outside the doors Kevin’s voice can be heard. 

Lucifer redirects his fury to the walls of Sam’s room, barring his teeth at it like a caged animal. The Morning Star cuts in smoothly, not allowing Sam to finish his sentence, “I don’t understand why you felt you needed to keep this from me.” Fingers move to scratch furiously at his scalp, words shaking and body incapable of staying still. The archangel can feel how easy it could be to be lost within the waves of his own cold fury, but Sam pulls him away from it with a confession that douses his anger immediately. 

“I’m afraid of what you’d do —- going to do when hearing all of this,” Sam shouts out over the rumbling of cement and the bunker’s sirens screeching off in the hallway at the disruption.

The bunker is suddenly plunged into stillness and silence, the archangel deflating as the words sink in. Lucifer is conflicted, understanding his folly in pushing Sam to tell him the truth and yet glad the truth has been given. He didn’t mean to come across as a being to be feared or a potential threat. So he opens himself to the brunette, palms open as if to present himself in a more disarming manner. “…Sam, I’d never hurt you. I’d never do anything to put you in harm’s way,” he reminds gently, pushing the froth of his own anger at hearing of Heaven down his throat. He can’t afford — he doesn’t want to further isolate himself from Sam. 

“I know…” Sam heaves out, still a bit shaken over the bunker reverberating around him, “I just am…” The hunter swallows his words — that he’s scared to trust himself. 

“Scared of me,” Lucifer finishes with a small smile, nodding in understanding. Sam grimaces and only sits down on the bed. He wants to correct Lucifer, to add on, but maybe this is the safer choice. Kevin’s voice is getting louder but Sam can’t be bothered to get up. 

Lucifer doesn’t want to partake in this conversation anymore. There’s a bubbling need to simply burn through Nick and feel the flesh barely keeping him together break and melt. The price of having this conversation is heavy; the wariness on Sam’s face directed at him only makes Lucifer disappointed at himself. One step forward, two steps back. 

“Heaven is…it is still my home even though I am not welcomed into it. I will defend what is mine,” Lucifer adds after an uncomfortable moment of silence, rubbing at his worn out knuckles until the skin begins to curl back at his motions. “I ask that you keep me updated on this. I do not want to be kept in the dark when it comes to my family,” he adds firmly. 

Sam hesitates but gives a reluctant nod. It feels like a nice trade. 

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, the both of them unable to shake off how wrong it felt to argue with the other. The archangel is unsure of how to remedy it, trying to figure out some way in which he can buy his way back into Sam’s affection. It certainly cannot be achieved in this form. 

“Guys?! Sam?” Kevin’s voice comes from outside the door, rapping on it eagerly. Sam rises to his feet immediately, crossing the room to pull the door open. “Sam, did you hear that?! I don’t know what’s going on. Everything started lighting up like crazy again when — ” the prophet began rapidly but trails off when Sam shakes his head with a worn out smile. 

“It’s okay, Kevin. Just…it’s nothing. False alarm. We’re okay,” Sam assures a bit forcefully, the prophet frowning and trying to peer past Sam. The frown on his lips grows deeper when he sees the room is partially plunged in darkness. “It’s okay, Kevin. Just trust me,” Sam adds, “Please.” 

The prophet attempts again to look past Sam before scowling at the hunter. Kevin eventually gives up, giving a nod but looking unconvinced as he walks off muttering under his breath. Sam doesn’t close the door, only eyes the wall across from the room before turning his frame to eye Lucifer. The remaining light in the room, on its last leg and casting a trembling warm glow only makes Lucifer’s vessel look worn. Long shadows of their bodies are cast onto the wall, the bunker’s hallway poorly pouring light into Sam’s room. 

Sam doesn’t feel good about the way the argument ended. Sam knows that if he tells Lucifer to leave him alone that the archangel will comply. Another easy route to take. Everything with Lucifer feels so complicated now, Sam’s hypothesis confirmed in what will happen if he puts both worlds together. 

“I should go, Sam. I’m sorry,” Lucifer cuts through the silence, “I shouldn’t be getting upset with you.” Sam just mutely stares, Lucifer waiting for Sam to move out of the way so he can begin to move forward. The archangel itches to burn through this meat suit. Only then can he can mend the widening rift between them, perhaps too desperate to purchase Sam’s forgiveness and affection. He knows Sam feels safer around him when he’s nearly as large as a fist. 

“It’s okay,” Sam mumbles, swallowing thickly as he moves away. Lucifer answers with a nod and walks off, Sam watching the back of the archangel until he disappears into the hallway. It only continues to feel wrong now that Lucifer has vacated the space, the dying light in his room finally snuffed out. It doesn’t feel right to let this moment end like this without at least trying. While Sam is still frightened at the uncertainty of this path, it feels like an injustice not to make an attempt. 

Cursing under his breath at the situation altogether, he leaves his room. “Lucifer…wait,” Sam calls out, watching the blond pause in his steps. “Wait, look,” the hunter heaves out, trotting over to the archangel. “I…I should have told you. I’m the one who should be saying sorry.” That relaxes Lucifer’s face, giving a small smile. 

“I accept your apology,” Lucifer replies warmly and readily, mouth melting into a wider smile, looking utterly relieved. 

This feels a bit better, Sam reflects. It makes him more confident, clearing his throat and offering his own smile. “Think we can start over again?” Sam asks a bit boldly, surprising himself and the archangel. 

Lucifer nods in affirmation. “I don’t enjoy fighting with you, Sam,” Lucifer adds softly and Sam can only suck in the air around him, nodding awkwardly. He doesn’t know how to respond to that and Lucifer doesn’t seem expectant of a response. 

“Come on, I’ll make us something to eat,” Sam breathes out in a new train of thought, a bit unsure of what to do now. But from experience with Dean after messy apologies, food seems to help in the repair. While still unable to shush the doubt flittering through his skull, it feels invigorating to take this chance to repair. It’s his decision and he’s acting upon it, even if it feels like he’s winging it — 

“Oh!” Sam exclaims in passing thought as they enter the kitchen, turning to look at Lucifer who is tilting his head in question. Wings. He remembers seeing wings in his room when Lucifer made the bunker shake. It reminds him of the question he inquired of Lucifer when they were practicing strengthening his wings. “I forgot I…” He slaps his thigh in thought, brows pinching in remembrance. “I asked you a question, but you couldn’t quite answer it. Are your wings as a bird the mirror image of your own wings?” 

The question catches Lucifer off guard, frowning quietly as he folds his arms across his chest. Maybe that isn’t exactly the most graceful of questions to ask the Morning Star after a heated argument, but Sam’s trying to incite conversation between them that doesn’t involve Abaddon, Crowley or Metatron. Lucifer only pushes his shoulder blades together until his back pops, Sam about to dismiss the question when Lucifer’s silence continues, but the archangel suddenly shakes his head. “No, Sam. My wings are…” the blond begins, squinting at a spot above Sam’s head as if trying to find the right words, “they are beyond the possibility of being healed. They are lost…” 

Sam groans in disbelief at himself, but Lucifer shakes his head. “There is nothing to be sorry for,” Lucifer answers in anticipation with a reassuring smile. “It happened a very long time ago and…I’m glad you’re interested.” 

The hunter sighs in relief but pauses, his hand on the refrigerator door. “Would you mind if I could see them? I mean…am I able to see them?” 

It must have been the right thing to say because Lucifer looks genuinely pleased at Sam’s request. “I haven’t looked at them in eons, but you may, Sam. You are always capable of viewing them.” 

Lucifer turns his back to face Sam, fingers picking at the shirt Sam loaned and peeling it off. It leaves Lucifer’s hair far more chaotic than it started, and he holds onto the crumpled shirt in both of his hands. He’s more than content that Sam is interested in his wings, far more eager to showcase whatever Sam wishes to please the Winchester. It still feels to the archangel as if he’s trying to win his positive attention, but Lucifer isn’t quite concerned with the dilemma. With Grace pushing and grabbing at the physics of the space about them, he lets what is left of his wings spread. 

Sam views the grotesque massacre racing across Lucifer’s back. It looks as if someone ripped limbs off his shoulder blades — like his wings — and all that is left is gaping pocket scars and streaks of mutilated flesh. The traces of war forever lingering on the archangel. Sam doesn’t quite remember his own back mirroring the scarred back when they were once upon a time conjoined. It’s hard for Sam to look at, so he opts for staring at the back of Lucifer’s heels. He waits to hear the shift of _something_ before looking up.

“…I…oh…” 

It’s the absence of feathers and bone. Appendages are missing and only two distinct structures of bone jut out, uneven and jagged, as if snapped. Sam thought archangels had six or eight wings. Instead Lucifer wears lost space. Sam hesitantly moves forward, feeling Lucifer’s back tremble and the archangel cast a hesitant look at Sam’s approaching hand, not expecting Sam to feel incited to touch. He thought Sam only wanted to view, feeling momentarily self-conscience. 

“I…can I touch?” Lucifer seems to consider if it is safe for Sam to touch the discordance sitting on his back and gives a nod after a moment. Fingers run across bone, feeling the smooth drag of the material until it stops upon the touch of something soft. Peering through the kitchen’s soft lights, he squints and he sees it is down feathers. 

“There are no feathers, right?” Sam asks curiously. 

“Yes. Michael has left with me stubs. Nothing seems to grow anymore…”

Sam sucks in the air noisily, running his fingers lightly across the tuft of down feathers, and the archangel’s back trembling more. “Lucifer…there are feathers,” he rushes out in barely contained excitement. 

Lucifer twists his head to look, almost frantically before he simply stretches his hand out. “May I see?” Sam understands, giving Lucifer his hand and the connection is bright and instantly true. The archangel gives a broken noise, holding on tightly onto Sam’s hand. Sam can feel the bombardment of excitement and thrill hitting him like a tidal wave, the hunter giving a breathless sound in surprise. These are Lucifer’s emotions. It’s bright and overwhelming, making Sam want to jerk his hand back because it’s almost too much. But be holds on, let’s Lucifer relish and stare through Sam’s eyes in their connection. 

Lucifer is the one to release his hand, moving his hand back and able to brush just the edges of the down feathers collected near the joints. 

“You did it,” Sam grins, thrumming and alive with his own and Lucifer’s residual excitement still pumping through him. Lucifer shakes his head, Sam moving his fingers back to examine the incredibly soft feathers. 

“No, Sam, we did it,” he responds back, vibrating and humming with pleasure as Sam lightly combs through the feathers. Sam can’t help but glow at the statement, unwilling to refute it. Pushing his fingers a little bit further, the archangel grows rigid. 

“Did —- does it hurt?” Sam asks worriedly, “I’m sorry.” Lucifer’s eyes are busy staring at the wall, seeing past cement and stone. 

“No, Sam, you’re fine,” Lucifer grits out before finally relaxing, giving a disbelieving sigh and allowing himself to push his back further against Sam’s hand in reassurance and greed. “I just felt _the_ Mark of Cain being transferred,” he explains, annoyed at being interrupted and unwilling to have the change of conversation take away from his moment with the Winchester. 

Sam blinks before giving a soft sound in amusement, staring at one of the down feathers he’s carefully thumbing. It feels incredibly soft and warm — something Lucifer’s flesh does not radiate — to the touch. “Wait — the Mark of Cain? You were the one who gave the Mark of Cain?” he asks, the archangels eyes half-lidded and lazy with the attention. 

“Yes, and now your brother is wearing it.”


	14. I Can Almost See You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're both the bearer of bad news: Sam telling Lucifer about Metatron and Hell, Lucifer about the Mark of Cain. To top it off, Dean finally comes home.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [callmedesdinova](callmedesdinova.tumblr.com) for being my beta for this chapter!

The Impala left with three, she returned with two. 

Dean’s been white knuckling the Impala’s steering wheel since they sped off of Cain’s property, the radio beginning to belt out _Stairway to Heaven_ and the Winchester couldn’t shove his thumb fast enough into the power button. The remainder of the trip back to the bunker is filled with the roar of the Impala and the occasional shifting against the Impala’s leather. The Mark is a sore ache on his arm, throbbing to the beat of his own heart. It raps against the walls of his veins and, despite the fact this stain on his skin is a step closer to beating Abaddon, shame sits tight in his throat. This isn’t a mark nor a scar to feel proud over, self-deprecation seeming to permeate from it. 

The demons still hiss and howl in the back of his head. He can still hear them pushing against the doors, Castiel struggling to bat off the incoming demons before being forced to regress into feathers and talons. He can hear Cain’s retelling of the story of his brother, saving him from the Devil and how clogged his own words felt when he protested that he is protecting Sam. He’s protecting his little brother, and Cain repeats his sentiments with his own on Abel. The more he churns the story, the louder the hisses and howls become — the sound almost seeming to be breeding and blooming from the back of his skull. Dean’s head feels like a symphony hall with screeching and off-key notes bouncing across the walls. 

It all feels wrong and he realizes that perhaps he should have stayed to listen to Cain’s warnings about the Mark. He can still feel the lingering shudder of his skin crawling as Crowley eyed the mark on his arm, a sort of hungry glee and smug satisfaction at the new layout. Dean feels as if he’s been handed a diadem made out of his own blood and bones, back growing rigid as if refusing to shrink from its weight. Crowley, sleazy and greasy grin on his face, promised to find the First Blade from the bottom of the ocean since Castiel is out of commission. 

He knows it’s a piss poor decision but he gives his assent. The sharp-shinned hawk cries out its disapproval but it’s ignored. 

Castiel is settled in the passenger seat, returned to a more humanoid state but looking worse for wear. There are bruises engulfing his neck, a bad cut on his brow and the skin on his knuckles is peeled back. The angel alternates between staring at his knuckles to staring out of the window. Disapproval is heavy on his brows and lips, filling the space with sighs that’s been making Dean grip the steering wheel tighter. He can still hear them — the demons still hissing in his head, only throwing kerosene into the fire in his belly. 

“Alright. Go ahead. Spit it out. If I have to hear you fuckin’ sigh one more time, I’m going to pull over,” Dean snaps because this isn’t how he expected this journey to turn out. He didn’t expect to get the Mark of Cain, to hear about how Lucifer was flirting with Abel to make him his “pet” and it ended up Cain having to kill his brother to save him. All he can think of is Sam. What if Lucifer was pulling the same stunt he pulled on Abel on Sam? The thought makes his blood boil and the distance between himself and his brother causes his teeth to grind. Dean angrily scratches at his forearm, relinquishing a hand from the wheel.

The angel shoots Dean a withering look, letting his fingers spread wide on his own bent knees. 

“Accepting the Mark of Cain was foolish, Dean,” Castiel states curtly, Dean responding immediately with a snort. “I understand you would rather not talk about this because you are upset, but this sign carries consequences,” Castiel stressed, but Dean doesn’t give. Cain tried to inform him of the responsibilities behind the Mark but Dean just didn't give a damn. He sure as hell didn’t give a damn now. He needed to focus on retrieving the blade and killing Abaddon. End of story.

Dean shifts in his seat, his foot heavier on the gas pedal at the movement, glaring at the streak of road ahead of him. “Well I don’t see you coming up with bright ass ideas on how to kill Abaddon. This is an idea. I took it. We’re going to get the blade and kill her. When she’s dead, then can you nag at me and tell me how shitty it is,” Dean bites and Castiel sits back in his seat, brows furrowed and quiet. The space in the Impala settles back to being filled by the purr of the Impala’s engine. Dean can’t stand it, so he fills it with his voice:  “You know what, Cas? I don’t like working with Crowley but he’s the only one around here who seems to be able to contribute.” 

He knows he shouldn’t be pissed at Cas but it’s irritating to know the only one supporting him on his decision is that stubby King of Hell. Castiel doesn’t look convinced, brows relaxing to make way for a look of concern before casting it to the window. The drive sinks back into uncomfortable silence and Dean can’t stop clenching at the steering wheel, his knuckles popping and sore when they finally stop for gas. 

Eyeing Castiel from his spot by the pump, he can’t help but get the impression the angel looks like a small child that got tussled, noticing how swollen the angel’s cheek is beginning to look. With a sigh, glancing at the numbers on the pump, he raps at the passenger door before opening it. He knows it’s more guilt than concern that has him switching to a different tune. 

“You hungry? Thirsty?” 

Castiel looks up at him before giving a nod, about to get up but Dean sticks his hand out. “No, you stay. You look bad as hell. Not trying to grab anyone’s attention. I’ll be back,” Dean instructs before turning towards the gas station. 

There’s a quiet desperation to share his fears — his continuing fears about housing the Devil under their roof. Lucifer _just_ as a pipsqueak bird was tolerable. This was something he could easily take out. But with Gadreel officially eradicated by Lucifer, Lucifer not always staying as a bird, and now bearing the Mark of Cain that was created _by_ Lucifer? Dean has an ugly feeling he may just have become Lucifer’s bitch. Cain was Lucifer’s bitch, what made him so different? What about Sam? If Lucifer is healing because of Sam or whatever the hell is going on between those two, that couldn’t bode well. For all he knows, Lucifer is biding his time, reeling Sam in to make him his pet. 

Dean thinks of white suits and thorns. He feels his panic bubble in his gullet until it’s froth and intent.

Everything he didn’t like before about the archangel was vividly present before him, enlarged and screaming at him that he knowingly let another big threat walk about with Sam. 

Dean wants to tell Castiel he’s scared. Scared for his little brother. Scared over the story Cain gave because it feels too real and close. But he keeps his mouth shut, keeps his concerns to himself and returns with a handful of junk food and two cokes. 

“Put the can of coke against your cheek. Beginning to swell up,” Dean states gruffly, Castiel mumbling his thanks before placing the soda can against his cheek. They still have a day and a half drive till they reach the bunker and Dean can’t help but let his foot rest heavy on the gas pedal.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Lucifer eyes Sam’s steaming mug of coffee with mute interest, the two having moved onto the library to continue their conversation. It wasn’t too difficult to calm down Sam when he assured the hunter the Mark of Cain cannot and will not kill Dean. That, if anything, Dean is physically safer with the imprint on his skin. But he can still see the line of tension pulling at Sam’s shoulder blades, and he suggested the library to talk, Sam sinking into the cushions with ease. As he predicted, the cushions are making it difficult for Sam to remain rigid. His body is forced to relax and it pushes out a sigh from the hunter, hushed and briefly floating in the air.  

There is a high coursing through Lucifer’s being, still glowing at the fact that his wings are returning to him. It has been ages since he has possessed functional wings and to know that a unique healing is occurring sets him in an easier and pliable mood. There is something strangely fitting in having healed Sam’s soul and now Sam healing his wings. It’s a thought Lucifer reflects and mulls over with the edges of his lips curled. _We’re saving each other._ Lucifer keeps the revelation to himself, not yet confident that whatever interest or connection that budded in the kitchen is enough to keep Sam from shrinking away from those words. Sometimes he feels that the strings tethering them together are made out of fine china or brittle glass. 

“I always thought God was the one who gave the mark. Didn’t Cain kill Abel out of jealousy?” Sam starts the conversation, forgoing food to make himself another cup of coffee. He takes a moment to take in the blond who is seated across from him a few feet away, eyes painfully vivid and bright against the browns and rustic reds of the library. The archangel looks more than comfortable in his clothes, cross-legged on one of the armchairs, knees propped on the armrests. While Castiel sits slumped or with perfect posture in chairs, Lucifer is fluid as if he has always been familiar with how to move under human skin.

Lucifer tilts his head, eyes closing as if remembering a distant memory before shaking his head. “Oh no, Cain killed Abel out of selfishness and paranoia,” the archangel murmured before his lips curl into a half-formed smile. “God never partook in their story. I did. Sam, your lineage traces back to Cain and Abel. Woven into your genetic coding is a little bit of divinity. That divinity was first placed in Cain and Abel,” Lucifer explains, eyes opening slowly to watch the hunter who is drinking in the information, brows pinched. 

“So…Cain and Abel were the first vessels for you and Michael. Abel was…your vessel?” Sam ventures. 

The archangel nods, pleased that Sam guessed correctly. “The little brother. A sweet but terribly inquisitive young man. He was never my true vessel, but he held a rather curious role. A shepherd. Someone who understands what it takes to herd sheep. How stupid and dull sheep are. Yet he had such an unfathomable amount of love towards them. He cared deeply about his flock and respected them as if they were equal despite their…” The archangel pauses as if to find an acceptable term, tongue curling in his mouth before he finishes wryly, “Despite their slowness.” 

The blond’s brows rise, a finger tapping on the armrest with lips curling in amusement, “Remind you of someone?” 

Sam snorts and takes a gulp of his coffee, leaning back further into his seat. “So let me guess, stubborn and insufferable,” the hunter joins in and Lucifer’s smile is full, the white of his teeth showing. A warm roll of laughter leaves his mouth, and Sam can’t help but smile sheepishly along against the rim of his mug. 

“Absolutely,” Lucifer responds, gaze not leaving Sam’s, “but I didn’t care. Despite how stubborn he may be — how stubborn we both were — I enjoyed what little time was spent in his company. I could only drift about in his dreams, unable to truly touch down upon the ground without assistance. I craved the earth and Abel would show me what he saw each night. We spoke about the possibility of Abel letting me in so I can walk on the earth but it never came to pass.” Sam’s lips purse, the talk of inhabiting vessels making his gut twist, the incident with Gadreel being pushed to the front. Lucifer seems to have noticed his expression because he doesn’t elaborate further, carrying on swiftly, “But…someone must have informed Cain that I was talking to his brother.” 

“Sounds like a bad soap opera,” Sam comments dryly and Lucifer nods in agreement. 

“It certainly plays out as one. Cain was under the impression I was grooming Abel to be my pet. A plaything.” The archangel moves his hands, letting his fingers thread through each other and settle on his stomach. “Cain called for me. Shouting in the fields. Spilling the blood of one of Abel’s sheep, drawing rudimentary signs he etched out poorly. His confrontation was half-baked, but I came to him. He wanted me to release his brother. The dilemma was that I did not have Abel,” Lucifer explains, turning his head to stare at his fingers. “Abel is very much his own and his decisions are his to make. Cain refused to accept his brother would speak to me willingly. To be near me willingly. Night after night he called and threatened. A man in denial and fear, certain Abel’s soul was lost to Hell.” 

Sam asks curiously, “But Abel wouldn’t go to Hell, right?” 

Lucifer shakes his head. “Of course not. You don’t earn a ticket to Hell because you happen to talk to me. Hardly a crime, but Cain was stubborn in his view. Each day Cain killed another sheep. Another of Abel’s flock. The man who was born with a talent to work the earth was staining it with blood.” Sam can feel his gut drop, not enjoying how terrifyingly close the story feels. It sounds like an ugly metaphor. It feels like guilt and worry, the emotions conjoined and only making his coffee taste bland on his tongue. “Cain was more intent on starting wars than tending to his crops. One day he asked to trade places. He would allow his own soul to be dragged down to Hell, but I must ensure that Abel goes to Heaven. He wished to save his brother from a fate he was never condemned to. As easy as it may be for Cain, the damage was already great on their relationship.” 

The hunter sucks on his bottom lip, eyes fixated on the corner of his own armrest, asking quietly, “How did Abel feel…” Sam sighs, making a slight motion with his head. “I mean, how did he feel about Cain’s actions?” Sam is already dismissing whatever importance the question has to him with a shrug. Already wanting to pull the question back into his mouth.  

“Alone. Each morning he woke up to find another member of his flock gone. He’d spend the nights in the field, desperate to deter Cain but it was pointless. Cain was determined to save his brother. Abel was already marked for Heaven but no reason or argument could sway him. I saw an opportunity with Cain, and so I added another condition to this budding deal.” Lucifer already is casting an imploring look for understanding, preparing him for whatever unpleasant twist that was to come. “During this time, Sam, the Fall was recent and Hell was still in her infancy. I was angry and eager to gain ground against my sibling for taking my wings and forsaking me. What better way to hurt Michael than to ruin his vessel?” 

Sam just nods, silent and cupping his coffee mug with both of his hands.    
“The price was that Cain would be the one to take his brother’s life. For someone who breathed and exhumed love and protection for his brother, Cain was terribly fast to accept the deal and bash his little brother’s head in. Another lamb for the slaughter, because he truly thought that was the right decision to make, and I’m sure he still believes he was in the right,” Lucifer concludes with a cold bite to his words, tongue clicking behind his teeth before sighing to himself. 

“The Father of Murder was born. While certainly I did lay out the paths Cain could take, it was Cain who made the final decision out of his own violation. He chose to be blinded by his own fear and selfishness, and so I branded him. I gave him a mark where he cannot die. He will never come close to death. No seed he ever plants will ever bear roots. The Mark will pass when he finally understands and accepts the lesson given through it.” There is something clinical and knowing passing from Lucifer’s lips. As if he predicted Cain would greedily go for Abel’s life, a researcher sighing and marking down an ending he was always aware of. That Man are unteachable creatures and are nothing but receptacles of sensory input, needs and wants. 

“What must be remembered, Sam, is that one can tell themselves the story they wish to believe. You can spend eons refusing to accept the truth. After all, ignorance is bliss,” Lucifer adds with something sly pulling at his lips and Sam huffs. This all is beginning to sound like commentary on his own relationship with Dean and he resists the urge to sink his teeth into it. 

Sam sighs through his nose and comments swiftly, “Yes, but anyone can create their own truth and convince themselves it’s faultless. Even ‘stubborn and insufferable’ archangels.” 

That takes Lucifer by surprise, leaning back into his seat with mouth parted as if to hastily give rejoinder. But instead he only gives Sam a pleased smile, humming to himself as he admires Sam’s biting tongue. “You’re absolutely right,” Lucifer admits and Sam gives a ‘hmph’ in satisfaction, sitting a bit straighter at this small victory. “‘Stubborn and insufferable,’” Lucifer repeats, letting the words sit on his tongue before cocking a brow at Sam, “must be something they picked up from their equally ‘stubborn and insufferable’ counterparts.” 

Sam scoffs, grinning despite himself as he shakes his head. “Oh no, don’t even think about pinning that on me,” he warns, and Lucifer only chuckles, letting his hands rise in a mock gesture of surrender. Sam’s not sure when he stopped being tense about the Mark of Cain, joking easily with the archangel. The thought has him shaking his head, returning back to the topic, “So…what exactly is the lesson the Mark teaches or shows? If Dean has it, doesn’t that mean Cain learned his?” Because it does sound like there is the possibility of removal, though he’s not sure if Lucifer is able to or would want to remove from Dean. 

“The lesson is specific to the wearer. It is not a one-size-fits-all. However, when holding that rudimentary tool of bone and teeth, the First Blade, its effects are the same. The Blade and the Mark feed off of each other and can only be effective when together. It brings you back to a time when you prospered for ill reasons. When you felt powerful but the means to gain power is immoral. It reminds you that this strength came at a cost. It is not a marking to be proud of. It’s a teaching tool, Sam. Unfortunately, it is a teaching tool that can only be passed to those who are unfortunately worthy of carrying it. Just because Cain passed it does not mean Cain learned the gravity of his own actions,” Lucifer explains thoroughly, already seeing the worry beginning to resurface on Sam’s face. The archangel swears he can feel the pulls and pangs of conflicting emotions that are not his but Sam’s. Emotions briefly tugging on the needlework of their connection.

“Sam,” Lucifer begins in a gentler tone, moving his hand and legs so he can lean forward. “The reason I am telling you of the Mark of Cain is because you asked me to. I have no intention of sugarcoating the facts to mislead you. It’s not my intention to upset you, Sam. I know you may not be too pleased with my own past actions but there is nothing I can do to change it.” 

The hunter purses his lips, trying to think of how Dean plays into this. His mind sinks back to how long Dean may have to wear the Mark. If Cain didn’t learn his lesson, what about Dean? He’s not sure he wants to ask if Lucifer is able to remove the Mark in fear it might be a ‘no’ or a ‘there is no point to.’ Sam still can’t forget that this story still consisted of Abel dying but also that this story is an old one.    
“No, no — I…” Sam pauses to issue out a heavy sigh before giving an understanding look, “well I’m not jumping for joy over this, but this is something that happened in the past. What’s done is done. I’m…” The hunter sighs, moving a hand to rub at his cheek before issuing out in a clearer voice, “I’m so tired of people holding things that I’ve done in the past over me so I’m not going to do the same for you. That’s not fair.” While the story certainly carries warnings Sam will remember, he doesn’t see how holding Lucifer accountable for something done near the dawn of humanity is productive. Sam knows that he would have liked to have others not admonish him for old sins. While certainly easier to throw his frustrations at Lucifer, there is something freeing and fulfilling in taking this route. “I guess we’re both even now on being the bearer of bad news,” Sam adds in afterthought. He told Lucifer of Hell and Metatron, Lucifer with the Mark of Cain. 

Lucifer blinks in surprise, not at all expecting Sam’s words. The surprise melts into quiet admiration from the archangel and Sam can feel heat race across the base of his neck, ducking his head in embarrassment. Under the flare of color there is pride uncoiling in his belly, silently proud of himself, too. 

“Sam,” Lucifer states affectionately, “you are very wise. Perhaps even wiser than me…” There’s a pause before adding quietly, “I’m glad it was always you.” 

The last line makes Sam’s eyes widen, his head snapping up to only see Lucifer out of the armchair, sticking his hands in the pockets of his sweats. The hunter watches him walk off aimlessly with a smile on his lips, Sam left to ponder the archangel’s words with his cooling mug of coffee. His cheeks remain warm with pride for the remainder of the day. _‘I’m glad it was you,’_ lurks in the crevices of his skull like hushed but familiar song. 

Sam eventually moves to find Lucifer, unsure of how he feels other than the fact that everything has the possibility of manageable. The Mark can become manageable and is able to be passed off. It also helps that the creator of the Mark of Cain is with them. Getting rid of Abaddon is a possibility. While it doesn’t cover the slew of other troubles they have to combat, things are becoming manageable. It’s a good start. Sam thinks that maybe Lucifer and himself are stepping from manageable to understanding. Maybe not on every area of thought (the differing opinions on humanity still a problem in Sam’s eyes), but it feels like a step forward in the right direction. It also helps seeing the growth of feathers, as if somehow their own growth is vividly being displayed before them. 

Sam finds Lucifer in Kevin’s room around seven at night, sprawled out and overtaking the prophet’s room with his laptop. Kevin’s been trying to show Lucifer how to use the Internet again, and it’s been an uphill struggle. The prophet explains distressingly he made the mistake of showing Lucifer YouTube because all he will do now his grumble over the stupidity of humanity to humming curiously at videos of animals. It’s been a struggle to pull Lucifer off of the site, only content when he switched to Pandora. He’ll sing under his breath, only growing annoyed when Kevin itches for the return of his computer or to change the station. 

“Sam, please help me out here! Can you please tell Lucifer he’s been on the Internet for too long? He’s not listening to me!” Kevin exclaims and Sam looks on with amusement, Lucifer laid out on his side with the laptop on the bed. The archangel frowns momentarily at Kevin before returning to the screen. It’s hard to imagine Lucifer as a threat when he’s busy spending time with a prophet and a computer. It's hard to be anything but lighthearted, Lucifer's words and wings pleasant and soothing against the backdrop of continuing tragedies. 

“Lucifer, you’ve been on the Internet for too long,” Sam chuckles, Kevin heaving out a sigh in disbelief at the lack of firmness in the hunter’s tone.

The prophet issues out snidely before shuffling closer to his computer, “Yeah, the real authority figure over here.” 

The left side of Sam’s mouth pulls up in amusement, turning to Lucifer and folding his arms across his chest. “Come on, let’s give Kevin back his computer. We got to teach you how to work the shower, anyways, because you're starting to smell like your dust baths,” Sam calls out, watching the archangel make a face and Kevin give a sound in agreement. “I’m sure you can take a short break from being _stubborn and insufferable_ ,” the hunter adds when the blond looks unwilling to leave. Blue eyes squint at him from the bed before Lucifer is sliding off. 

“Stubborn and insufferable,” he huffs out at Sam when they exit Kevin’s room, shoulders bumping into each other. Sam only shoots Lucifer a smile, shaking his head as he leads the way. 

The archangel trails after Sam, feet slapping louder on the tile of the bathroom as Sam pulls the shower curtain back. “Okay. You pull this knob up to start the water. Right is cold. Left is hot,” Sam demonstrates, moving his hand to lift it up, water beginning to pour out. “Go ahead and tell me if it’s too hot or too cold,” Sam gestures. Lucifer moves closer and bends down, hand stretching out to touch the water. 

“Too cold,” the blond states, Sam changing the direction of the handle until Lucifer gives a hum in satisfaction at the water pushing past his fingers. 

“Good, so now you just pull up on this thing which is the diverter. That’ll move the water out of the shower head,” Sam points out before pointing to the bottles at the edge. “Shampoo is over there. I’ll get you soap.” Sam leaves Lucifer to take a shower after handing off the soap, closing the door after him and moving to grab him a new set of clothes. They’re going to have to eventually make a trip to the store to grab him clothes of his own, but for now borrowing will do. The thought of taking the Devil shopping has him giving a short bark of laughter. 

Sam comes back to the bathroom a half an hour later, steam rolling from underneath the door. Sam knocks on the door before calling out, “Hey, can I come in? I got some clothes for you.” There’s a muffled ‘yes’ and Sam carefully peeks in, catching Lucifer trying to understand how one wraps a towel around their waist. The archangel’s skin is pink where the warm water has made his skin flush in residual heat. “Here — hold on, I got it,” Sam offers, moving to set the clothes down on the counter before moving towards the archangel. Fingers move to help tuck in the towel and that’s when he spots it, shampoo suds still in Lucifer’s hair. 

“Lucifer,” Sam laughs warmly, “you still got shampoo in your hair. Here just bend over and put your head under the sink. I’ll wash it out for you.” The angel makes a soft sound and moves over to the sink, dipping his underneath the faucet. Lucifer only breathes in when cold water hits side of his skull, Sam apologizing under his breath as he makes the water warm. Long fingers finish scrubbing the shampoo, scratching at blond’s scalp, lightly turning Lucifer’s head to get at the other areas. 

Sam finally turns the faucet off, the archangel slowly standing back up, hair soppy and clinging onto his forehead. The Winchester already is reaching over for another towel, handing it for the archangel to dry his hair off. “Got you some clean clothes. I’ll fix us something to eat and maybe um… I guess just prepare for when Dean is going to come back and all hell breaks loose,” Sam proposes, eyeing the deep bruising and sores across the archangel’s chest. 

He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand that they’ve been occupying each other’s space but Lucifer seems to be sluggishly healing when it comes to his vessel’s exterior. 

Lucifer shoots him a look amongst the fabric of towel, giving a small smile with a mocking little rejoinder, “All Hell breaks loose?” 

“It’s a — whatever. Smart ass,” Sam snorts before Lucifer is holding the towel out, unsure of where to put it. Sam takes it and moves to hang it up, laughing under his breath. Wet hair is sticking up and Lucifer only responds by pushing his fingers through the damp hair, creating more chaos. Sam moves towards the door to give the archangel privacy but he pauses. Twisting so he’s facing the archangel, watching him pick up the shirt folded on the counter, he blurts out a nagging little thought, “Did you like Abel? You said you enjoyed being in his company but…” 

“But yet I let Abel die,” Lucifer supplies, sliding on the offered shirt over his frame. “I enjoyed his presence in a way a teacher enjoys their craft. I sought to teach just as I sought with Eve. He was a way I could still see the Earth, even if it was through his dreams. Nothing more and nothing less.” 

Sam gives a nod, not sure where he differs, then, from Abel. Is he just a piece? A means to an end? “What about me?” 

Lucifer’s brows arch and he gives him a look as if he should know better. “Sam, I came to Abel so I could see the world. I came to you offering the world — anything you wish, it’s yours. The offer still stands and will always be there. I can go through the rest of my existence never seeing the light of day as long as I know that you are happy, Sam,” the archangel replies gently, and Sam can only stare. 

Lucifer gives an admonishing sigh and makes a motion to grab the rest of the offered clothing. “Let me finish getting dressed and I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Lucifer suggests. Sam gives a short nod before exiting the bathroom stiffly.

Perhaps it’s a stroke of luck that Lucifer just happened to become a little bird when it was close to calling it a night. Sam had to help a struggling bird maneuver itself out of a pile of clothes in the hallway, one of his talons caught in the fabric of the shirt. There is something methodically pleasant about the routine he has built with the archangel, the song sparrow nestled on his own pillow, and Sam on his side of the bed. With all the information being fed to each other today, Sam’s not sure how things are going to turn out when Dean comes back. He has a visceral feeling that Lucifer might become a rather easy target to Dean’s wrath. 

Sam’s not sure what he’s going to do. He’s not sure what to expect from Dean or if it’s going to change his brother. He wants to be helpful and present for Dean, but he also doesn’t want Dean to be under the impression that because they’re working together on this, all is well in their own relationship. Maybe this whole stint with Gadreel is part of Dean’s lesson. Sam snorts in the darkness of his room. If only it was that easy. One thing for certain is that he doesn’t want Dean to be like this Cain character, or for Dean to feel he has to become him. The best he can do is just wait to see what Dean brings to the table and be there for his brother. 

Having Lucifer at that table is what worries Sam. 

Facing Abel’s fate doesn’t worry Sam, however. Not anymore. While Cain and Abel may have been the first vessels for Michael and Lucifer, Sam isn’t Abel. He feels that curl of pride as he returns to Lucifer’s words in the library and in the bathroom. 

It all sounds like a promise of protection and safety, like the walls making up the bunker. All Sam can conclude is that it feels nice and comforting. The hunter twists to his side to watch the sparrow in the darkness, head tucked underneath its wing. The sparrow shifts, as if feeling Sam’s gaze, before giving out a tired peep. Sam mumbles out an apology as he reaches over to rub at the spot behind the bird’s head. The sparrow pushes against the touch in encouragement.

“Hey…thanks for just…being upfront with me about everything,” Sam murmurs and Lucifer answers with another peep. Sometimes it's baffling the way a sentient being such as Lucifer can care and show concern for him. A portion of himself feels undeserving, but it's unable to damper how nice it feels to hear the archangel's words. It makes a complex situation as this feel a bit easier and possible. Sam finally moves his hand before turning to his side, not taking him long to fall asleep. When Sam wakes up, it’s to the sound of Dean’s voice filling the bunker and Lucifer nowhere to be found next to him.


	15. Baptism By Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer finally mets the new holder of the Mark of Cain. For better or worse, Crowley doesn't show up with blade. Instead, something much worse comes knocking...
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to callmedesdinova for being my beta for this chapter!

Despite Lucifer’s estrangement from Hell’s crown, Hell continues to speak to him. 

Hell will always speak to its Creator. It speaks to him in a guttural language of fire, metal and brimstone, informing its Creator of a new host to the codependent mark. The Mark of Cain is nothing but another aspect of Hell — another aspect of _his_ Creation where he wove together dark matter and the _eye for an eye_ philosophy into one symbol. Lucifer is aware of Dean gaining ground, coming closer and closer to the bunker, but he can’t quite will himself to slip out of bed. The blond archangel is unwilling to forgo this peace that has made home within Sam’s bedroom.

Being next to Sam is equivalent to the sun hitting your shoulders on a chilly day, determined to warm your flesh despite the frigid environment. Sam’s soul radiates warmth that burrows deep into the structure of his being, leaving him shuddering at the temperature difference. In the early hours of the morning, nestled underneath sheets, he finds it a struggle to leave. He finds it a struggle to burn through his vessel, in these hours of the day, to keep himself small. 

When wearing the leftovers of Nick, he can appreciate their bond a little bit more. He can bask in the sunshine of Sam’s soul, their connection is more sound in contrast to when he is in the facade of a bird. There is a lazy curl of contentment and ease permeating from them both, the Winchester unafraid to shift closer to the archangel in his sleep. 

Each day that passes in Sam’s company, Lucifer grows more confident at the state of their relationship. The conversation in the library felt like a step forward, but the terrifying segment in Sam’s life detailed in the Winchester Gospels still made him cautious. Sam’s addled soul and mind, broken and holding on for dear life, pronounced him as this monstrous character. The dissonance between the recent events and this terrifying segment in Sam’s life still sits unresolved and stewing in the archangel’s skull. There is a conversation begging to take place, and it’s one Lucifer cannot quite predict. To his great chagrin and helpless admiration, Sam Winchester single-handedly rose up to meet his Fate and ripped up the ending. Unpredictability and chance now danced ahead on their roads, and for an archangel who enjoyed knowing everything, he’s left with the wild unknown. 

He knew Sam’s beginning, but he no longer knows of their ending. All he does know is that he was given only one moment with Sam, and by miracle or sheer dumb luck, he was presented with a second moment. Lucifer relishes this second moment by waking up early, Grace in tune with his surroundings and the boy who saved the world. Drowsy blue eyes would admire Sam’s small nuances, memorizing him with a sleep-worn smile. Lucifer admires the way Sam twists during the night, beginning on his back and ending up on his stomach, an arm underneath the pillow. The way his hair grows wild throughout his slumber or how he’ll be indecisive as to whether he wants his foot sticking out from the covers or underneath it. In these moments, it feels as if they’re sharing private moments not meant to be shared with the world. Not due to modesty, but because what they share — _could share_ — can never be understood. They are secrets told between Grace and Soul. 

In these moments, Sam is the only thing he wants to know. 

He doesn’t care for Hell’s politics. Doesn’t care for Metatron’s antics. Doesn’t care for his fallen brothers or where Michael may be. In these moments, Lucifer doesn’t care about his namesake or a crown of ice. He doesn’t care for revenge or reclamation of a world turned backwards thanks to Man. In these moments, Sam is the only thing in his line of sight, with his tousled hair and drooling mouth. It draws a crooked smile on Lucifer’s lips, staring at Sam’s half-submerged face.

The archangel moves when he can feel Dean’s presence is, now, closer to the bunker. He is still half an hour away, but it seemed inappropriate to give Dean the luxury of barging into the room in search for him. With a sigh, he carefully slips out of the covers and adjusts the sheets, pulling them over the Winchester’s shoulders. Sam only grumbles and buries his face further into the pillow, earning an amused chuckle from the Morning Star. Lucifer finds clothes already set out neatly on the desk chair for him, the chaotic-haired blond smiling to himself as he begins to dress. With one last look at the sleeping Winchester, he quietly exits Sam’s room to prepare himself for Dean’s arrival. 

He can feel the hot flare of frustration and sweaty undercurrent of anxiety from the approaching hunter, the Mark a revealing beacon to the archangel. The minute Dean accepted the Mark is the minute the curtains had been flung back. The scabbing of his being has been peeled off, leaving open wounds to be observed by Hell’s Creator. The archangel only feels trifled with, not pleased he has to be up and deal with this trivial matter when he can be elsewhere. So he sits quietly at the spread out tables in the middle of the bunker, weaseling his chilled fingers into the front pocket of Sam’s hoodie. The closer Dean approaches the entrance, the hotter the flare and clearer the conflict raging inside of Dean.  

Dean’s entrance is loud, metal banging against the cement walls, footsteps heavy on the floor as he enters from above. With the swivel of his head, Dean immediately finds Lucifer and throws a heated look down at him. Castiel follows behind him, looking more than worn and face splotched red. Lucifer eyes his sibling with interest, noticing the stiffness of his vessel. The archangel wonders if skin has already begun to break in more hidden areas. If his stomach is beginning to be drawn thin, skin pulled taught and slowly beginning to shred. He wonders if Castiel can feel the disjointedness of everything within him, with the lack of harmonization and the strange crawl of foreign Grace underneath his skin. 

“Just the douchebag I was looking for.” Dean smiles, dumping his own bag on the floor before rounding in on the blond. He has his fists curled as if he’s ready to engage in a fist fight with the Devil himself. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas issues out warningly, Dean pausing a few feet away, issuing out a sneer at Lucifer. 

The Morning Star only shoots a bland smile at the hunter, leaning back in his chair. But Dean doesn’t let whatever anger that is boiling and frothing in his throat out. He only remains in place, shifting his weight from side-to-side, glaring at the unfazed archangel. Lucifer wonders, idly, if Dean will strike him before he can spit out the words sitting on his tongue.

“I trust you had a good trip,” Lucifer hums out, unable to help himself from poking at the hunter. 

“Fuck you,” he breathes out, upper lip curling into a snarl with barely contained disgust. It’s a sort of anger that’s quiet and being pulled at from the seams, the base of each note trembling, a precursor to a frustrated cry of, “I know now. I know _all_ about Cain. All about Abel — how you tried to — _what_ , manipulate him? Make him your little bitch?” 

Castiel directs his gaze to Lucifer, carefully letting down the bag on his shoulder and moving closer, as if prepared to physically intervene. 

“It made me think. Think about _all of this_.” Dean’s arms stretch out wide, gesturing to everything about him. “What makes Sam so different from Abel?” Dean spits out, all fury and possessiveness at once, the words revealing the rather scattered quality of the hunter’s mind. Blind anger makes him stupid and Lucifer gives a soft sound in amusement. “ _Huh?_ What is stopping you from making Sam your little Hell bitch?” 

“ _Dean! Enough_. Getting into a fight isn’t going to solve this,” Castiel bites out, now at his side, hand settling on his upper arm. 

The archangel understands he should be offended at the claim, but he can, now, see through the hunter. He can see the overwhelming surplus of fear of the unknown. Amongst that bubbling pot of fear is self-blame, doubt and self-loathing. Whether Dean fully understands the consequential mark or not, he grasps that it’s wrong and dirty. An ugly little mark that he was deemed, unfortunately, “worthy” of carrying. Hell speaks to its Creator, and in turn, every little coiled secret inside of Dean speaks to Lucifer. He sees all the fear that is being masked. He sees the way Dean is skillfully masking his own pain with threatening words and the beating of his chest. 

An ugly snort in humor pushes out of Dean, shaking his head and casting a long look at Castiel. “No, no, you see…” Dean begins out smoothly, turning his gaze back to Lucifer, “he won’t hurt me. He knows if he hurts me, he won’t be here.” Lucifer casts his eyes past Dean to meet Castiel’s, a brow rising in warning, and Castiel inadvertently tightens his grip on Dean. “The only reason you’re here, Lucifer, is because my brother felt _sorry_ for you. You’re a charity case. You’re…fuckin’ useless and Sam — you’re using that to your advantage! Tricking _my_ brother into your little…sad fucking game because you got your own shitty family issues. You did it with Abel and here we go again! What makes you so different from Gadreel?!” Part of Dean’s words bite at a reoccurring fear, and while he will not subjugate himself to being offended at a scared little boy, he would not stand for this. His tongue curls in his mouth, ready to coolly issue out a warning but his words fail to make instant fruition.

“ _ **Dean! Enough!**_ ” the younger angel raises his voice, moving his body so he blocks Dean’s view of Lucifer. “You made your point. You're upset. Now is not the time to do this,” the angle stresses, mincing his words.

It’s only out of a petulant need to bite back at Dean that he finally speaks. “It’s impressive to see you feed off of your own emotions,” Lucifer sighs out with mock appreciation, Dean instantly making a motion to strong arm Castiel to get to the archangel. Dean is throwing curses that are more a blur of red — hot and vibrant rather than structured words. “Misplaced anger makes you _stupid_ , Dean,” Lucifer comments simply, watching Dean thrash against Castiel, body pushing against the table to his side. The sound of the table scratching against the slicked cement walls and Dean’s colorful language fills the bunker. Lucifer watches with something akin to satisfaction. 

“ **Dean! Lucifer! Stop!** ” 

It’s not Castiel’s voice that cuts through, Dean coming to a slow halt and the smirk on Lucifer’s lips faltering. All eyes move to focus on Sam, pajamas twisted on his frame and hair wild. His voice is orotund, commanding attention, chest rising and falling as he stares firmly at each occupant in the room. Running a hand through his hair, he moves to his left and sighs in relief to see Lucifer unharmed and seated at the table. Dean’s lips form a thin line and he makes a motion to leave, but Sam shakes his head, taking a step forward. “Dean, no, it’s okay. I know. I know about the Mark of Cain. He told me everything, Dean — ” 

“So he told you about Abel? About Cain? About the deal that got Abel killed?!” the hunter interjects quickly, his body now twisted to face Sam. 

“Yes. He told me everything,” Sam affirms. Dean blinks in confusion, as if not expecting to hear that response, at a momentary loss at how to respond. “I get that you’re…upset that Lucifer made the Mark exist or whatever it is that you’re upset about. But taking it out on Lucifer isn’t going to help. You need him. If anyone understands the Mark, it’d be the person who created it,” Sam continues on, letting his shoulders straighten and head rise in authority, trying to emphasize the need for clarity amongst the chaos. 

Dean stares at Sam as he shakes his head in disbelief, trying to understand the strangeness of this scenario. “Are you seriously defending him, Sam? _Lucifer?! Really?!_ ” Dean gives a broken sound, jabbing a finger back at Lucifer, nearly smacking Castiel in the process. 

Sam sighs and shakes his head. “This isn’t about defending anyone, Dean. This isn’t about picking sides. It’s about solving — ”

“ _Stop_ , just stop! I’m going to stop you right there,” the eldest interjects, torn between bewilderment and disappointment, his hand held up. “I’m way too tired for this shit right now. I’m going to just…” Dean makes a face, not quite sure what word to use, “Unwind.” The hunter twists his body, eyes finding the seated archangel, nostrils flaring in insult. “And maybe you should go back to bed, too, because I _know_ my baby brother wouldn’t tell me to have some faith in fuckin’ Satan.” Dean’s voice ricochets to a terrifying loud volume, irritation dripping from his mouth. Sam flinches at the thrown words and swallows thickly, turning his gaze elsewhere. 

With a disapproving look shot Sam’s way, Dean moves to pick up his dropped bag before disappearing into the hallway. Castiel remains put, offering Sam an apologetic look, but it’s Lucifer who consoles. The archangel sighs and leans forward. “He’s terrified. It will take time for him to adjust to the Mark and when he does, that is when you should be worried.” Lucifer can still feel it — thrums of agitation being engulfed by fear. 

Castiel gives a quizzical look, head tilting to the left as Sam seats himself on top of the table. “What does that mean?” the young angel inquires. 

Sam sighs, moving his hand to fix his hair, his eyes fixated on his knees as he answers, “We don’t want Dean becoming comfortable in his own hell. It’s good that he feels wrong inside his own skin. It means he’s still human.” The hunter turns to Lucifer for affirmation, and the archangel nods in turn. “Um…but we got to keep that blade away from him. That’ll only speed it up, right?” 

The dark-haired angel gives a disgruntled sound at Sam’s words and turns, face morphing into agitation. “That may be a problem. Dean had Crowley fetch the blade,” he states with a frustrated sigh. 

“Wait…you — Crowley is free now?!” Sam exclaims, whatever sleep that was remaining evaporated. Castiel gives a solemn nod, the both of them turning to Lucifer for answers. The blond makes a face, leaning back in his seat and toying with his fingers in the privacy of the strange pocket on Sam’s Stanford hoodie. “I know Crowley wants Hell back but he’s been pulling the wool over our eyes from day one. There’s always a catch,” Sam adds and Lucifer hums in agreement. 

The archangel can only conclude simply to the room, “The only person who can choose to reject the blade is Dean. It’s not mine nor anyone else's decision.”

—————————————————————

Castiel retreated to the observatory when the conversation faded into an unsatisfactory end, leaving Sam and Lucifer to remain seated on the table. Sam looks a bit worn, aged, but there is a fierce light of determination sitting behind his eyes. Lucifer wants to clap the knee closest to him and reassure the hunter that resolution is possible, but his hands remain confined within the depths of the hoodie. Sam eventually leaves to make food and coffee, leaving the archangel still seated and pensive. He turns his head towards the observatory, Castiel unable to be viewed from where he’s seated. While Castiel’s state may have been unnoticed by Sam due to the chaos that just recently brewed, Lucifer noticed.

Leaving his seat at the table, he pads over to the observatory, the glossed cement flooring cool against his chilled skin. Castiel is standing in front of a large, bland chart of the stars, the color having seeped out from the passing years. The stars charted were small in contrast to the vastness and complexity of space, Mankind only able to observe the stars that are skin deep.

“You’ve been a long way from home longer than the others,” Lucifer states gently, eyeing his brother’s rigid back. 

Castiel sighs and turns his head, the low lighting of the room making the bruises on his face look ghastly. He slowly moves so he can face his older brother, watching him carefully. “You’ve been away from home far longer than me — than anyone,” the younger angel clarifies, earning a hum from the blond. Lucifer moves quietly through the room, eyeing the walls and aged machines sitting unused against the walls. Castiel’s brows pinch together, watching his sibling before starting out firmly with a new beat, “Sam may not have been privy to the beginning of our conversation — ” Lucifer throws a look past his shoulder at Castiel, informing he wasn’t aware his interaction with Dean could have been deemed a conversation, “but I do not appreciate you taunting Dean.” 

The blond blinks at Castiel, an amused look settling on his face. “Rather possessive of you.” The young angel only straightens himself up, face set and daring Lucifer to venture further on the topic. Lucifer shrugs the look off. “It’s fitting that you’re both burning through your stitchings.” 

“Are you here to taunt me, too?” Castiel grits out. 

The Morning Star only tilts his head and turns up to the rounded ceiling, closed off and blocking the overwhelmingly large telescope from peeking into the heavens. It’s oddly fitting for their situations, both barred from Heaven, but while Lucifer retains his birthright — his Grace — Castiel does not. Even in the state Lucifer is in, he can see the turmoil within his brother, genetic coding fighting against the coding of another. “No,” he finally sighs out, “not today.” Lucifer turns his gaze back to Castiel. “I can see what’s happening to you. You’re burning out of your own shell carrying stolen Grace, Castiel. And you’re only injuring yourself further by trying to repair your vessel.” 

Castiel stiffens but his gaze falters. “Will you tell the others?” Castiel finally asks. 

“No.” The young angel’s head lifts up, a puzzled look stretched on his features. “It’s not for me to share, but if they ask of it, I will,” Lucifer clarifies, and the answer seems to please Castiel because he slumps against the wall. His body shows its haggard state, exhausted and unraveling from the seams. Castiel turns his head to glance at the corner of the entranceway, his frame tucked away neatly within the observatory before he slips out of his coat. Laying it neatly on the standoffish desk in the room, he carefully rolls up his sleeves to bare his forearms. It catches Lucifer’s attention, curiosity propelling him forward with easy strides. There the skin has been shaved down, a milky pink and beginning to show muscle. 

“Is it only here?” the Morning Star inquires, staring at the lesions on Castiel’s skin. Castiel solemnly shakes his head. “Show me.”

The younger angel doesn’t move, only frowns at his older brother, suspicious of his motives. “Why do you care? Our relationship has been tenuous at best.”

“The story hasn’t quite changed, Castiel. With good intentions, you were used and all of Heaven was casted out. Now almost all of Heaven wants to see you dead, and if they succeed, guess what? The Winchesters, your family and friends, will be left with one less protector,” the archangel explains and the words are terrifyingly the same from a moment long ago, Castiel issuing out a shaky exhale of unneeded air. “At this moment, just like before, we’re on the same side, like it or not.” 

“So I should serve your own best interests?” Castiel bites in remembrance, pulling his arms away defensively. 

“No, you should serve your own. You told me back then that you would rather die. You will die, Castiel, and our Father will not piece you back together. He’s gone, Castiel, and in his stead is a pitiful creature pretending to be Him. If you want to shoulder this burden on your own and keep it to yourself, you will burn through your vessel as that stolen Grace continues to fizzle out,” Lucifer informs, watching the younger angel’s irritated expression melt into guilt. “Yes, there are selfish reasons why I want to lend a hand. While I’m not privy to Heaven, Heaven is my home. I will not let Metatron rule as if he is our Father. If there is anyone capable of making sure he is removed, it’s you. I need you present and supportive, especially now with Dean wearing the Mark of Cain,” Lucifer ticks off before concluding softly, “most importantly, if you die like this, it’ll hurt Sam.” 

Castiel stares at his brother for a moment, scanning his features before sighing in admission. He begins to pick at the buttons of his shirt. “ _You’re_ rather possessive of Sam,” Castiel slings back coolly, earning an affectionate snort from Lucifer. 

“Let’s keep the focus on you,” he advises wryly. 

Just as he thought, Castiel was already breaking across his stomach. Sores and broken skin marked his body, already showing the breaking down of vessel from Grace. Chilled fingers brush against one, earning a sharp hiss. Castiel and his situations were different despite their similarities. Castiel wore foreign Grace that is not sustainable in this vessel. Each use led to depletion and erosion of the vessel. When Castiel tries to repair himself, maintain a humanoid state, he’s only taking away from the limited source of Grace. “Where is your Grace now, Castiel?” Lucifer asks, having Castiel turn to show him his back.

“Metatron took it,” he heaves out, before adding quietly, “I think it’s gone. He said the final trial needed it and…” The angel confesses to the room, eyes fixated on the wall where the charts of stars remained, “I don’t know what to do…”

Lucifer sighs and lays his hand between Castiel’s bare shoulder blades. With the push of Grace, he repairs his sibling. “We’ll figure it out,” he assures, the younger angel trembling at the frigid touch of Lucifer’s Grace dancing across his skin. Castiel only murmurs his thanks as he holds onto his own dwindling Grace.

—————————————————————

It’s been a week since Dean and Castiel returned to the bunker, bringing home the Mark of Cain but not the King of Hell. While there was no love lost between Crowley and the bunker’s occupants, Kevin took the news the hardest. He couldn’t grasp why Crowley was released or how everyone seemed to forget that it was Crowley who killed his mother. While the prophet usually keeps himself isolated in his room, the news of Crowley’s release keeps him active and present within the bunker. He wants Crowley back in the holding cell, doubtful on Dean’s assurance that Crowley will return on his own. So he prowls, glares and continually asks for updates. The prophet becomes more and more agitated with each day that passes without word from Crowley.

Sam is settled at one of the main tables with Kevin, entertaining him with looking at some potential cases and coffee, their laptops glowing in front of them. Lucifer is nearby, a sparrow once more and trying to nestle his way underneath Sam’s curled hand. 

“Alright, check this out, on the outskirts of Omaha twenty-five cows were found mutilated and then burned,” Sam suggests, squinting at the screen as he feels the miniature sparrow settle underneath his left hand. A quiet peep issues out from under his hand and Sam moves his thumb to rub against the Morning Star’s miniature head. “Can’t tell if this is demonic or an angry farmer,” the hunter jokes lightly, but Kevin only grumbles, typing away at his own computer. Sam sighs at his computer screen, lifting his hand, and he shoots the archangel a worried look. 

Lucifer simply lifts himself up, seeking the top of Sam’s palm and gives an angry peep for him to move his hand back. 

“You’re no help,” Sam informs, returning to the screen. It’s a bit difficult to scour the web for cases when his left hand is preoccupied. He complains about it to the sparrow, but he hasn’t found the will to move his hand just yet. 

It’s been a while since he sat down and looked at potential cases. Other hunters often dial them in or shoot encrypted e-mails his way on strange omens, cases picked up and so forth. Sam thinks it’s with reluctance that the hunter community chooses to still interact with them. They still call them John’s kids and Sam has a hunch that the ghost of their father keeps their head above the surface despite the years of horror they’ve helped bring in. It’s hard to explain how the Apocalypse became debunked or that at the moment they had to work with the King of Hell. Sam’s pretty sure the hunting community would flip its shit if they found the Devil returned and was under Sam Winchester’s protection. _Under Sam Winchester’s protection._ The phrase makes his lips twist into a rueful smirk, eyeing the little bird that has made home underneath his hand, eyes closed in contentment. 

“Okay, let’s see…” Sam sighs, returning back to his screen, scrolling down until he pauses on a story. It must be wildfire season because every other story has to do with raging fires ripping across the west coast. “Wildfire season, it seems,” Sam vocalizes, earning a grunt from Kevin and a curious peep from Lucifer. “This is weird. At the Museum of Contemporary Art in LA, a fire broke out in one of the exhibits and…it looks like only objects that were of gold or contained gold melted…” The hunter frowns, clicking on a few pictures. “Fire and police department have yet to help conclude in the arson investigation as to why the museum’s more vulnerable pieces were not scathed or how such a fire could have reached such intensity to melt gold,” Sam reads out, turning his computer so Lucifer can look. The little bird slips out, cocking his head to look at the images. 

“Looks like all the objects happened to be…” the hunter begins, scrolling further down and falling into a hum as he scans the list of damaged objects. “Get this, they’re all pagan works,” Sam heaves out, switching tabs to take a deeper look into the Los Angeles’ police database. It sounds far from natural and the young hunter is eager to check it out, not sure why something about this sounds strangely familiar. Lucifer sits patiently next to the computer, watching Sam enter the site without a hitch. 

Sam only turns away from the screen when he hears someone clear their throat, eyes finding Dean standing grimly a few feet away from the table.

“I got some bad news and some good news,” Dean begins, one hand holding onto his cell and other hand shoved inside his pocket. Kevin snorts in response, the brunette brushing it aside with an irritated frown. “Look, I’ve been trying to get a hold of Crowley, and I haven’t been getting any luck. He hasn’t been answering his cell — ”

“It’s _Crowley!_ What were you expecting?! ” Kevin interjects in dismay, closing his laptop with a firm snap. 

Dean is quick on the draw, raising his voice over the prophet’s, “Kevin, I know! Can I finish talking or is this going to keep on happening every time I say something?” The prophet only glowers and sinks into his chair. “ _Thank you_ ,” the hunter sardonically smiles, continuing on, “anyways, so I decided I’d take a page out of Bela’s book and I used a spirit board.” Sam frowns but keeps his mouth shut, turning his body in the chair to face his brother. “Did a little bit of snooping and apparently shit is nuts behind the veil.” Dean gives a half-formed grin, as if there was a joke somewhere in there, but when no one shares his grin he continues on stiffly, “Spirits can’t crossover due to Heaven being closed, so they’re stuck. Bad for them, but easier for us when it comes to recon. Word is Crowley has a few properties he’s been spotted visiting and…someone saw your mom in one of them. That’s the good news.” 

The young prophet sits still, fingers lying flat on the laptop, before asking in a small voice, “They saw her alive, right?” 

“Yeah. Just asked them half an hour ago and she’s alive. Kicked around but alive,” Dean assures, tone a bit more gentle. Kevin gives a jerky nod, throat spasming as he swallows the saliva building in his mouth. “Looks like Crowley lied to you. I know that Crowley is…out in the wind, but we can bring your mom back here,” the eldest suggests with raised brows, turning to Sam for support who nods in agreement. “Does that sound good?”

Kevin gives another jerky nod, a watery ‘ _yeah_ ’ leaving past his lips. Angrily rubbing at his eyes, he straightens up and demands in a clear voice, “I want to go with you guys. I want to help get my mom back.” 

“ _Hold on_. Let’s figure out a game plan first. We got to plot out the coordinates and do some searching on our own from here before we go in guns blazing. Got it?” 

Kevin nods, grabbing his laptop as he pushes his way out of his seat. “I’m going to start packing, then.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Kevin is already pushing his way past him, determined to be a part of this one way or another. 

“Good thinking with the spirit board,” Sam compliments, Dean giving a nod. 

“Was a bitch. Everyone crowding in because they want their say. All I know is that we may be finding ourselves up to our neck with vengeful spirits if Heaven doesn’t open up soon,” the older hunter hypothesizes, scratching the back of his head. “I’ll go tell Cas about it. I want to us to hit the road as soon as we can. I didn’t tell Kevin this but, apparently, Crowley’s been torturing choice people within this…storage unit sort of place. The girl who helped me locate her used to be held up right next to her.” 

Sam curses under his breath, lifting his hand in disbelief before it settles on the table. “He has to go, Dean. The longer Crowley is about the more he hurts us. The more he hurts the people we care about,” Sam stresses. Dean only gives a reluctant nod and turns to head back to his room. 

The case he was examining goes abandoned, picking up his laptop and Lucifer. Setting Lucifer down on the bed, he moves to grab at his duffle bag. The little sparrow hops about the bed, peeking out from the top of the bed at the Winchester as he rifles through his clothes on the floor. Eventually the archangel settles down, watching Sam with dark eyes. It takes half an hour before Grace and Soul gives him leeway to reform his vessel’s body. 

“Sam, I want to go with you — ”

Sam jolts in surprise, swearing and pressing his palm against his chest. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.” Twisting back, he s looks at the seated archangel staring down at him. Sam gives a hungry gulp of air, feeling his heart beat wildly against his chest. 

“Sorry,” the blond apologizes, pulling his legs in so he can sit cross-legged across Sam’s bed. “Sam, I want to go with you,” he repeats, and Sam sighs at the request, staring up at Lucifer’s bare knees poking out from the bed. 

“Luce, I don’t know… That’s a tall order — especially now.”

“I have no fond feelings for Crowley, and I certainly don’t have fond feelings for those who have defiled my kingdom,” the Morning Star assures. It’s something Sam already knows, but the shared dislike towards the King of Hell makes him relax with consensus. “You have every reason to be concerned, but I want to be there to see him get gutted,” he adds before including in afterthought, “I can’t be here forever, Sam, and watch the world pass me by.”

Sam moves a hand to rub at his face, scooting himself backwards until his side is resting against the mattress. He looks a bit guilty at the idea of the archangel feeling as if he’s trapped here. “I’d really like to see that, too,” he confesses, moving his fingers to fiddle with the hanging sheets. “I’d also like someone else there who knows the Mark of Cain to keep an eye on Dean. Especially if Crowley is holding the First Blade…” Lucifer gives a nod in agreement, watching the seated hunter on the ground wrack his brain on whether this is a decent idea or terrifyingly reckless. 

There is a growing curl of intent and exhilaration fueling Lucifer that has been budding in his chest the minute Sam showed him that case and the cases before it. “Sam, I don’t want to go back to the Cage,” he adds, “I am going to do everything I can to make sure of it. Crowley being about is another nuisance that is making the sustainment of my freedom difficult.” 

Sam sighs and closes his eyes in response, continuing to pick at the sheet. “I’ll ask the others and we’ll see about it, but I can’t make any promises, okay? Might be too soon for that, okay, but I’ll ask,” the hunter replies with uncertainty. Lucifer only hums in satisfaction at the response, letting Sam return to his packing. 

On the other side of the country, raging fires were erupting from the very air, scorching the earth and melting pagan gold. Someone broke an old seal to a prison cell already broken wide open with fire, breaking chains so they may never be reused. On the other side of the country, the Archangel Michael walked.


	16. Eleutheromania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Eleutheromania:** A great desire for or obsession with freedom.
> 
>  
> 
> It's tempting to gamble and seek out the seals -- _his freedom._ However, the cost of pursuing this is great: Sam Winchester's trust and favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to callmedesdinova for being my beta for this chapter!

The Morning Star, with wings once damned to grow nothing and be nothing, proudly displays the remaining appendages in Sam’s room. Lucifer is seated on the bed, cross-legged and fiddling with Sam’s phone to keep his hands busy. His shirt is on the bed, the upper half of his body naked and revealing the juncture where wing meets flesh. There still remain pocket scars and streaks of mutilated flesh, nothing but thick, snow-kissed marks against his back. However, what once was just down feathers clustered about is now something more. Beautifully new feathers of bent light and sunshine were growing, covering the exposed bone of each appendage. The archangel is practically aglow, sitting proudly and oozing out contentment from every pore. 

Sam only smiles and laughs, sharing Lucifer’s pride as he settles on his knees behind Lucifer. The day has been spent running errands and preparing for the trip after Crowley and Kevin’s mom. For some reason, Castiel vouched for Lucifer to attend the trip, something that surprised both Winchesters. When Sam brought it up to Lucifer, the archangel only hummed in thought and mentioned that he healed Castiel the other day. Dean — far from pleased — was forced to concede, outnumbered by Castiel and Sam on whether Lucifer should attend or not. 

Dean still doesn’t want to talk about the Mark of Cain. The burden of the Mark continues to hang in the air, unacknowledged and yet begging to be spoken of. Dean makes sure his sleeves are rolled down and scratches at the Mark when he thinks no one is looking. 

“You’re lost in thought,” Lucifer’s voice breaks through. 

“Reading my thoughts?” Sam inquires, earning a hurt sound from the archangel as if he took offense to the accusation. 

“No,” he defends, adding with a petulant huff, “I just am noticing a lack of activity on my wings.” 

Sam chuckles in disbelief, scratching at his forehead before moving his fingers back to Lucifer’s wings. “In other words, you would like your spotlight back. Spoiled,” the hunter comments in good humor, the Morning Star only giving a ‘hmph’ in response and stretches his wings further in a call for attention. Sam’s chuckle transforms into bright laughter and fills the room. There’s been a growing habit of laughing in the archangel’s presence, growing more relaxed in his company. Sam enjoys noting the little nuances that are so bizarrely human and yet alien within its own that it’s comical. Here the infamous Morning Star is: sitting on his bed, miffed at the lack of attention being fixated on him, and Sam unable to stop grinning at it all. 

The hunter carefully glides his fingers through the translucent feathers; they’re terribly soft to the touch. Sam thinks the new feathers have an off-white sort of hue to them, but it’s difficult to tell with the archangel’s healing appendages seeming to suck in the light. They’re beautiful nonetheless, even though a few of the archangel’s wings remain snapped bones jutting out. Sam’s not sure those will ever heal. He makes sure to avoid the jagged stumps, remaining fixated on the wings that are relatively whole. Today, it’s his job to help Lucifer preen, and he spent a few hours trying to read up on bird self-care, but Lucifer is no bird. He’s something else entirely, and Sam has learned that the structure of an archangel’s wing compared to a sparrow’s are extremely different in regards to the care needed. 

It’s Lucifer’s idea to do it this way, commenting that he can’t reach all the spots to efficiently tend to his wings. Sam wants to call bullshit on that one. Instead he plays along, much to the archangel’s cool delight. 

The hunter has been spending the past twenty minutes smoothing down the feathers, having a hunch he’s doing nothing to improve the wings, but Lucifer doesn’t comment on it. Instead he only relishes the attention, giving soft sighs here and there, enough to encourage Sam to keep on going. Sam read that birds preen through dust baths — which he’s seen Lucifer as a sparrow do — but Lucifer seemed more keen on this method. Sam doesn’t mind, overly fascinated with Lucifer’s wings the minute he showed them to him in the kitchen.

“I’m fond of you spoiling me,” Lucifer admits a few minutes later. His admission is soft and reverent, something that makes Sam’s fingers pause in their movement. Sam doesn’t know how to respond so he keeps quiet, refocusing on the task at hand. The cogs in his skull are whirling furiously to form words or to just hum in acknowledgement, but he finds himself stupidly mute and embarrassed at himself. 

The archangel doesn’t seem to mind, returning his full attention to Sam’s cell phone. The hunter notes wryly that Lucifer is only succeeding in locking up his phone from what he can see over the stretched out appendages. When Sam’s finished, he scoots off the bed to admire the aligned and glossed wings. Slowly but surely Lucifer’s wings are repairing themselves, a thought that leaves Sam feeling successful and proud. 

“Oh, um…” Sam begins, Lucifer twisting on the bed to look at the hunter, “I got you something this morning during errands. I figured you’d probably want to have some clothes of your own.” The hunter tries to wipe the oil from Lucifer’s wings off on his pants, but it’s futile, giving a huff as he simply rubs his hands together. Sam picks up a bag by the door, handing it to Lucifer on the bed, the archangel instantly peeking into it. He carefully picks the clothes out and places them on the bed, eyeing each item of clothing before picking up another. There’s a smile on the archangel’s lips, a low hum trapped in his throat as he views each article clothing as a piece of treasure. 

“These are all mine?” he inquires softly, caught up in examining each finding within the bag. 

Sam smiles and nods. “All yours.” The archangel gives a contented sound, that’s more of a rumble in his chest that made the hair on Sam’s arms stand up. 

Lucifer suddenly gives a baffled noise at the pack of underwear, finally relinquishing Sam’s cellphone from his other hand. The archangel holds the pack up, wings dissipating from Sam’s view, as he squints at its contents. Sam can see he’s bewildered by the compact the packaging, trying to thumb through it with his fingers through plastic. 

“You need to wear underwear. You can’t go commando all the time,” Sam teases at Lucifer’s expense, swallowing his amused chortle because the only remaining archangel in the universe looks perplexed at a package of underwear. Lucifer shoots him a look that he should know better but begins to pick at the plastic, trying to get to the material underneath. “Got you the same kind I wear… They’re pretty soft,” the hunter adds, not sure why he felt that would be necessary to inform the blond. Lucifer only lifts his gaze up at him for a moment before returning to the clothing. The hunter feels embarrassment creep up his neck, shifting uncomfortably, and moving into a flurry of action to abate it.

Sam helps Lucifer pick a shirt to wear from his new collection, turning his back to the blond as he slips into his new clothes. He listens to the soft rustling of clothes and Sam only turns when he hears the sound of a zipper sliding up. “Did you put on underwear?” Sam asks with a hint of a smile on his lips. Lucifer graces him with an admonishing look, lightly picking at the long-sleeved thermal on his frame. The brunette moves closer to examine the archangel, making sure the dark navy thermal wasn’t inside-out and the jeans are buttoned. 

“You look good,” Sam compliments when he’s finished, taking a step back to take in Lucifer. “Everything fits you well?” he asks and Lucifer nods, the corner of his lips quirking up as if there’s a bemusing reflection to be made. Whatever the reflection may be, it isn’t voiced. 

“Thank you, Sam.” 

Sam smiles and moves to fold the remaining clothes. “So I have a spot for you in the drawers. This is where your clothes are going to be.” Sam points at one of the dressers, moving towards it with part of the clothes in his arms. “Figured since we share the same space, I should give you somewhere to put your clothes,” Sam concludes as he starts to put the clothes away, grumbling when one unfolds in his hands. 

The archangel is caught by surprise, a heavy fear that had latched onto him suddenly lightening. Sam’s giving him space within his private sanctuary. Lucifer quietly watches Sam move the clothes to an empty spot in the dresser drawers, smiling to himself. Sam fussing with his clothes is the sweetest sounding ‘yes’ he’s ever heard.

———————-------------

“I thought it was pretty clear that I’m going with you guys.” Kevin is standing in front of the entrance of the bunker, blocking the way and refusing to budge. _“I’m going!”_ he adds, a desperate plea rising in his throat, stretching his arms out to make himself look bigger. Dean is giving an exasperated look at the young prophet, who is groomed for travel and adjusting his backpack. Kevin stares right back up at him, defiant and livid at the Winchesters. “I’m going to go help find my mom!” the prophet stamps out and Dean gives a bland frown.

“Kevin, I never said you could come with us. You invited yourself,” Dean clarifies sternly, voice dropping to adopt an authoritative tone that only incites the Devil to snort in derision. That irritates Dean, shooting a dark look to the blond who is sitting on the stairwell picking at his shoelaces. This entire trip is chaotic already; the eldest hunter plunged in a sour mood because now he has to babysit not only the goddamn Devil, but also his brother. He thought they made it pretty damn clear from the beginning that Lucifer should stay indoors due to the fact that the world is going to hell and Dean knows where that story leads.

It’s sickening and worrying enough that Sam is chummy with Lucifer. 

“Dean — ”

 _“No!”_ Dean heaves out a bit too forcefully, sighing immediately in regret. He can feel Sam’s eyes boring into the side of his skull in reprimand. “No,” he repeats, softer, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Kevin, I can’t risk taking you out on the field and you getting hurt. It’s bad fucking enough that Castiel is now all…bird bullshit! You’re important — ” the hunter begins on a new beat, but Kevin is quick to interject.

“No, I’m not! I’m not important! Dean, there’s no tablets to read! It’s done!” Kevin’s hand is flying about in emphasis, Sam sighing gently and ready to intervene, but Kevin continues on. “That’s _my_ mom! I thought…I thought she was dead! If that was your mom, wouldn’t you want to see it through?!” 

That instantly hushes the boys, Dean looking uncomfortable and Sam standing stiffly. 

“Oh, let’s not forget that last time my mom was in trouble. You nearly killed her because Crowley was possessing her!” Kevin adds, an old fear creeping in that has Dean gnashing his teeth in blistering irritation. It’s hot and it’s breaking out in his gullet, bulbous blisters of rage birthing and begging to burst. Dean can feel his skin itch, fingers moving to his clothed forearm, abusively pinching flesh through fabric. 

**_“You know what, Kevin, if it means one less nightmare then so fuckin’ be it!”_**

The anger on Kevin’s face instantly shifts to mortification, the defiance sitting on his shoulders sagging.

“Dean!” Sam exclaims, hand grabbing at his wrist, forcing the eldest to make eye contact with him. _“Enough!”_

It quickly sparks into a shouting match: Dean standing firm to his belief, Kevin distraught, and Sam trying to mend a burning bridge. The archangel gives a disgruntled sound, rising to his feet with purpose. 

“You have to stay,” Lucifer’s voice fills the chaos of noise, calm yet commanding. Whether it’s presence, Grace or something completely else, everyone finds themselves struck mute. “I’ll make sure your mother comes home safe and sound. No one will harm her.” 

All three of them turn down to stare at the archangel. Kevin opens his mouth as if to protest, but he stops himself midway through. “I always keep my promises,” Lucifer adds, Kevin giving a nod. Dean’s hot statement lingers in the air, but Lucifer’s firm promise carries weight. The blond-haired archangel’s eyes slowly move to Sam, vibrant and sharp. Sam can only meet his gaze, swallowing thickly and taking a deep breath. 

That only serves to irritate Dean, clearing his throat and brusquely moving himself in front of Sam.   “Awesome, can we now get going? We’re losing precious daylight,” Dean bites out loudly, everyone beginning to move. Kevin gingerly moves away from the entrance, and Sam squeezes his shoulder before bending down to pick up the discarded duffle bags by his feet. The prophet stares mutely as the two brothers exit out the door, humid temperature from outside attempting to trickle in. Kevin makes an unsure noise in his throat, turning his head to Lucifer who is staring at him quietly. 

“I can’t believe I’m…trusting you — I mean, you know. The whole…” The prophet begins before struggling to back up and explain himself, nerves making his tongue thick and clumsy. He ends up sighing in distraught, “Just from what there is about you — the Devil and all. Sorry…I’m not trying to offend you.” The prophet appears to be wrestling internally, still unconvinced of his mother’s safety and desperate to get her back.

Lucifer shrugs. “I’m not offended. I understand,” the blond assures. “You helped me, it’s only fitting I return the favor,” Lucifer adds, certainly helping Kevin warm up to the idea that he may truly not be involved in this rescue mission. 

Kevin nods, a sweaty palm running through his hair and makes a move to pat the archangel or make a gesture in thanks, but instead his hand awkwardly moves back to his side. Kevin gives a strained smile instead, the gesture cracking at the corner of his lips. “Thanks…” he mumbles, moving down the stairs, pausing on his fourth step. “Look…just… _please_ make sure she’s okay. She’s all I have,” he pleads, the archangel turning his head to look down at the worried prophet. Fear, worry, and the lifestyle the Winchesters live is present on Kevin’s life, making the youth look aged and worn. Stress always has a way of showing the fragility of humans. Another flaw in the Creator’s making: creating a great capacity to emote within a confined space of flesh, bones, and brain matter. 

“I promise. Make sure to watch after my little brother.” 

Kevin closes his eyes for a moment, breathes, and slowly makes his way to the bottom floor. Lucifer waits for Kevin to disappear from sight before he heads out the doorway, stepping out into the warm air with slow steps. It feels different to be outside in a vessel that is not diminutive and low to the ground. He can feel the heat trying to permeate through his cool skin. Lucifer admires his surroundings before turning it to the parked Impala, both boys arguing with each other through hushed whispers. 

“— why the fuck is it whenever I want to get the job done, I look like the bad guy!?” Dean is hissing out loudly, gripping the open car door tightly. 

“Dean, no one thinks you’re the bad guy,” Sam consoles in disbelief. “Just have some tact!” 

“Tact. Really? Sure, why don’t I just sugarcoat everything instead of being fuckin’ honest — ”

“Lucifer,” Sam interjects tightly. Sam is the one to pull away from the conversation when he notices Lucifer, giving a small smile. Dean scowls and moves around to the trunk to finish loading up the duffle bags and supplies. 

“Hey…thanks for helping us out with Kevin,” Sam says when Lucifer moves closer and is within earshot. The younger brother shoots Dean a look, visually nudging him to issue out the same, but the hunter only huffs in annoyance. 

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles under his breath, “thanks, Satan.” 

The archangel stares passively at the hunter, Sam already interjecting with nonsensical information about the trip. The blond only turns away when Sam is next to him, bumping shoulders with him. “Look, I know this might not be fun, but you got to sit in the backseat. I’ll try to scoot my seat up a bit so you can have more leg room,” the brunette is explaining. Lucifer thinks of Castiel’s description of being in a vehicle years ago and already a pit of discomfort is forming in the Morning Star. 

He can’t imagine how two humans, let alone a celestial being, can fit into this configured piece of metal. 

Castiel is correct. It’s confining, he’s already appalled by how low the ceiling is. 

With Castiel unable to join in due to being confined as a hawk, the angel must stay behind. Dean thinks it’s fishy and poor timing, Lucifer knows it’s something much more. Day by day Castiel is breaking down, and Lucifer didn’t offer his services to heal Castiel again. It’s safer to remain in the low energy form of a bird and rest than exert himself. It’s better if Castiel isn’t present for this trip, not because he wouldn’t be an asset, but because Castiel will be a hindrance to his own agenda. 

Michael is somewhere out there breaking seals, attempting to dismantle — if not make it difficult — to utilize the Cage. The idea of maintaining his freedom is overwhelmingly sweet. While he certainly does care for Kevin Tran due to his services, the archangel is plagued with eleutheromania. He desperately wants to remain free, and the possibility makes the wings folded into his being tremble violently. The benefits are too great to pass up, and he can remain near Sam. He can make sure that the worn out state Sam and his soul have been experiencing for years will never come to be. He sees the fragility of Kevin, and he does not want to see it replicated on Sam on his watch. 

Lucifer understands he’s being selfish.

He doesn’t enjoy the possibility of being apart from Sam. He understands, now, that true connection isn’t found residing within the other. It’s found in small moments of preening to sitting quietly in one’s company. Lucifer doesn’t want to give it up. He has never spent such quality time with Sam Winchester before until this opportunity emerged. Now that he knows what it’s like be this close without the presence of vibrant animosity, he wants to desperately cling onto it. It feels good to be in the company of another you appreciate. Somewhere amongst the gratuitous amount of time spent in Sam Winchester’s company, he blissfully forgot that he is not viewed as a permanent resident within the bunker. 

However, as long as the Cage is present, is his freedom is constantly in jeopardy. While he enjoys Sam Winchester’s company, the idea of cemented freedom is sweeter. Lucifer’s not sure if that is enough of an incentive for him to gamble with potentially losing all of Sam’s trust by pursuing the seals to the Cage. He doesn’t want to give Sam up, but he also doesn’t want to return to the Cage. Destroying the remaining seals strongly ensures his survival and will allow him to continue to be in Sam’s presence. However, the breaking of the seals may terrify and upset Sam. While he has his freedom, it may be at the cost of Sam.    
Reading the news of pagan gold being melted is an oxymoronic take of Jeroboam’s golden calves. Somewhere amongst the hardened gold should have been his Father’s name inscribed. Once upon a time, gold was formed to create a false idol: a calf. Now false idols are melted down to form his Father’s name. It’s a seal and it was done in a tremendous show of fire. Michael is working to destroy all the remaining seals, attempting to make it more difficult to bind them. The presence and sign of his brother has ripped him out of this daydream. He has the opportunity, now healing and stronger thanks to Sam, to act. 

The archangel struggles as much with his thoughts as he does in making himself comfortable in the Impala, Sam showing him how to roll down his window. It’s a bit of a surprise when Dean opens the back door of the Impala, Sam already pushing himself out of the passenger seat to intervene, expecting a throw down. Instead, Dean makes a motion for Lucifer to give him his hands. “Let me see your wrists,” Dean commands. 

Lucifer merely stares. 

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam huffs out. Dean sighs heavily and pulls out handcuffs from his back pocket. 

“Security measure. If he’s coming, he’s coming zapped out of any angel juice,” Dean replies. Sam’s lips become a thin line but he gives a nod in agreement. 

“Lucifer…just listen to him,” Sam informs gently, looking displeased at all this. Lucifer complies and watches Dean slap on metal across his wrists, noticing the carved sigils with fine precision. Castiel offered a hand, explaining why the angel was so quickly reduced to a bird. Lucifer eyes the etched in sigils on the metal and gives a strange smile. 

“Now you can’t go out causing trouble,” Dean addresses, closing the door and heading over to the driver’s seat. “Even put on child’s lock,” the hunter adds, Sam scowling from the front seat. He twists to face Lucifer and gives an apologetic look, the archangel nodding in acknowledgment. The roar of the Impala turns Sam’s head frontward, rock music blaring loudly and instantaneously as the car begins to move forward. 

Lucifer is mildly disappointed in Castiel. He should know better than to bind him with Enochian sigils. It takes more than a handful of markings to keep him down. It takes blood, seals and rings to keep him collared.

———————-------------

Lucifer sleeps most of the way, only moving out of the car when they’ve stopped on the side of the road to stretch their legs or eat whatever fast food they bought on the way. The archangel complies, a quiet travel companion until they reached a motel near their destination. Lucifer gives a critical look at the inside of the motel, frowning at the poor state of it in contrast to the bunker.

“I miss my room,” Dean grumbles out when they dump their gear. “Okay, this is the plan. We all go and scout the place. Since Cas is out of the game, that means it’s up to you to tell us how many demons, Crowley, whatever, are inside. We drive back. We dump your ass back here, and Sam and I will finish the job. Capisce?”

The archangel frowns, pulling his shoulders back to relieve stress from sitting in one spot for so long. “That sounds like a poor plan. I should be there. I made a promise to Kevin,” the archangel voices, earning a dramatic shrug from the eldest hunter.

“Don’t give a shit. I didn’t want you here. I don’t want you here. You’re here anyways, and honestly, Sam and I can do this without you,” Dean bites, Sam only sighing quietly from his spot on one of the beds. “How about this, when we bring Ms. Tran over, you can heal her.” 

Lucifer shoots Dean a withering look but nods in assent, dropping the conversation altogether. 

It’s of no surprise when Crowley isn’t detected lingering around the storage unit. Just two low level demons milling about. As quickly as Lucifer relayed this, as quickly was he driven back to the motel, unceremoniously dumped and informed to ‘watch TV or something.’ Dean complains about how cold it got within the hour as the brothers exit the room. Sam glances at Lucifer one last time before he closes the door behind him. 

“Ever thought that maybe it might pay off to have Lucifer on this one?” Sam sighs out as they make their way to the car, a hand running across the tweed blazer. “I know you don’t want to talk about this — ”

“You’re right, Sam, I don’t!” Dean heaves out in annoyance. 

“— but Kevin has a point. Every time it comes down to a fight with a demon with the hostage, the hostage usually gets hurt. Maybe having some serious angel mojo can help make sure Ms. Tran doesn’t get…” Sam makes a face as he pulls the car door open, spare hand waving briefly in the air. “I dunno, gutted. Re-possessed. Make sure she’s safe.”

Dean waits until the car is purring underneath his fingertips and they’re heading towards the storage unit before replying, “Seriously, Sam? This — this is what is making me nervous!” 

Sam frowns, not quite sure what Dean’s referring to. 

“You — this whole, maybe we should let friggin’ Satan help us out bullshit! I told you, Sam! This is how it all works! The broken wing bullshit got you reeled in. Now the whole guardian angel bullshit?! Honestly, Sam, this guy is playing you like a fiddle and it’s a mistake to have even brought him out here let alone be around in the bunker without being in chains!” Dean emphasizes each word by slapping his hand against the steering wheel, frowning and readjusting himself on the seat. The Impala gives a guttural growl when his foot goes heavy on the pedal as he readjusts himself on his seat. 

“This, honestly, scares the shit out of me, Sam. I can’t explain to you how fucking scary it is that Lucifer is so far up your fucking ass and you can’t see how bad that is!” Dean adds in a disbelieving tone. “I’m sorry, but did you forget that this is the same guy who wants the Apocalypse to happen? The same guy who wanted to ride you in the Kentucky Derby?” 

Sam goes silent in his seat, staring ahead of him at the passing light pole. He rubs at his jaw and explains simply, “I’m not trying to defend Lucifer. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to use our resources to lighten the load.”

“So you’re telling me that it’s bad that I want to make sure we get the First Blade, but it’s okay to use Lucifer as an ally. Wow, thanks for putting it in perspective, Sam,” Dean bites sarcastically. 

Sam turns his gaze out the window and mumbles quietly, “You were okay using Gadreel without my permission.” 

Sam can feel the heat from Dean’s gaze, but he doesn’t meet it. The rest of the drive is silent until Dean turns on the radio.

When Dean and Sam arrive at the storage unit, making their way to the main office, both boys stare warily at the slumped over body through glass walls. Dean pulls his gun out of the waistband of his slacks as Sam readies Ruby’s knife, both of them slowly approaching the entrance. Glancing about, Sam opens the door as Dean slides in, gun held out and cocked. 

Nothing. 

Just a slumped body wearing a cheap black and red polo shirt.

Dean makes a motion for Sam to check the body, the youngest moving around the counter and placing his forefingers on his pulse. “Nothing…” Sam answers, eyeing the body that’s half on a chair and half on the counter. Carefully pushing him upright, scrunching his nose, Sam gives a hum in thought. “I don’t see any entry wounds or anything… Not even blood,” the hunter adds in disbelief, turning his head down to look for any tears in the man’s clothing. 

“Well this was definitely one of the demons, right?” Dean asks, eyeing his surroundings. 

“Maybe. I don’t know.” 

Dean gives an unhappy sound. “Well let’s just…try to find the storage lockers that belong to Crowley,” the hunter concludes, moving behind the counter to eye its contents. Sam moves to the computer, wiggling the mouse to wake it up. “Not sure how you can type in ‘storage units for humans’…” Dean mumbles, earning a snort from Sam. 

“I mean…we’re looking for spaces in use after Ms. Tran disappeared. Seeing it’s Crowley, might be the spaces that say it’s taken but the info doesn’t show in the system,” Sam theorizes, typing away on the computer.

Dean hums in agreement, carefully rolling the dead body on the chair away from him. “Uh.” he makes a face at the smell of an already rotting body. “So somewhere probably not close to all the other units. Pretty sure if someone heard screaming, they’d call the cops.” 

Sam doesn’t respond, only keeps on typing and clicking on the computer screen. It’s only after a few minutes does Sam stand upright, turning the monitor towards Dean. “Check this out. See these lockers over here?” Sam points to the screen, “Secluded. Only three. Not near any of the other lockers.” 

Dean gives a nod in approval, heading back to the Impala to grab their flashlights before making their way to the three lockers. 

It doesn’t take them long to find the second victim — or ex-demon, still unsure whether these were the same ones or not. Adorned in the same red and black polo shirt, the second body is nailed to the metal front of one of the units they were passing by. While the first body lacked blood, this one was coated profusely in blood, head slumped forward. When they turn their flashlights towards his face they find lettering above him. 

**“LAZARUS HAS RISEN”** is emboldened in what looks like blood.

There’s a hollow note ringing inside of Sam as he stares at the gruesome scene, watching blood drip out of the body’s mouth. This was freshly done — this was recent. 

“This can’t be Crowley…” Dean comments, turning his flashlight away in disgust. “I don’t get this… Uh…the dude looks dead. I don’t see any ‘risen’ going on here,” the hunter tries to make light of the image, masking his own discomfort. 

Sam takes a step closer to get a better look at the writing when the body suddenly seizes. It gives a gasping sound before it shrieks. It shrieks madly, head still hanging forward and vibrating against its hold. 

Sam jerks back, the screaming suddenly gone silent. 

**_“Shit!”_** Sam swears, Dean close in tow and joining his brother. 

_"What the fuck was that?!”_

Dean moves closer, to try and get a pulse or see how to help the man down, but the body seizes and shrieks once more. When Dean finally gets his fingers on his pulse, his other hand shoving his fingers into his ear, he doesn’t find a pulse. It doesn’t take them long to realize that the man is dead and will only move to life when someone approaches it. 

“What the fuck is this?!” Dean swears again in confusion, and Sam can only shake his head. He doesn’t know. He honestly doesn’t know.

———————-------------

The boys don’t speak of what they saw when they return to the motel, a worn down and malnourished Ms. Tran with them. To Dean’s surprise, Lucifer is exactly where he left him, sprawled out on the bed and staring at the television screen. Undoing Lucifer’s handcuffs, Dean allows the archangel to lay his hands on Ms. Tran, restoring her health.

The ride back home has Ms. Tran catching some much needed sleep in the front seat, Sam and Lucifer crammed in the backseat. They talk quietly of nonsensical topics, Dean straining to hear, but mostly keep quiet. They listen to the radio host announce that wildfire season has come in early on the west coast before returning to its marathon of Guns N’ Roses. 

Sam can’t stand keeping crucial information from Lucifer, and with a sigh, he heaves out, “We saw something weird last night at the storage unit.” 

Lucifer turns his head, arching a brow in curiosity. 

“Sam — ” Dean warns from up front. 

“Look, when we went to got Kevin’s mom, we found — well, someone already took care of those demons. The second one we found was pretty much crucified and had ‘Lazarus has risen’ written on top of it in blood,” Sam spills out, avoiding the irritated gaze Dean’s trying to shoot at Sam from the rearview mirror. “Can you make any sense out of it?” 

Lucifer blinks and gives a nod. “The story of Lazarus. However, in the story, he was very much alive at the end.”

Sam nods. “Right, but this one was dead. The story goes that Jesus brought him back. He’d start screaming when you got close to the body.” 

Lucifer turns his head towards the window in thought before turning it back to Sam. “‘He who believes will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die,’” Lucifer quotes and Sam’s shoulders sag in realization. 

“Even though he was dead…he showed life when you’re near it,” Sam sighs out, Lucifer nodding. Dean shifts, as if ready to say something but stops himself short when Ms. Tran begins to stir. They don’t bring up the conversation again until they reach the bunker.

———————-------------

Dean doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it one bit. As great as it is to see mother and son reunited, offering his smiles and even earning a tight hug from Kevin, everything about that rescue mission felt wrong. Someone came in before them, wiped the demons clean and crucified one of them. Dean can’t shove the blame on Lucifer because the archangel was wearing the suppression cuff and was in their presence when at the unit beforehand. There’s no way Lucifer could have managed to hitch a ride and get at the location before them, kill the two demons, and head back to the motel.

Damn, does nothing add up?

That’s why he’s searching for Castiel within the bunker, praying the angel wouldn’t still be confined as a bird. To his luck, Castiel is in the observatory, looking worse for wear but whole. 

“Shit…you don’t look good,” Dean comments, giving Cas a critical once over and frowning at the bruising on his jaw. “Should get some ice on that,” he advises, Castiel giving a nod as he smiles at Dean. The hunter makes a motion for Castiel to take a seat, the angel giving a grateful sound as he sits down. Dean pulls over a chair to sit next to him, eyeing the bruise with concern. He’s not sure if that’s from the fight with the demons at Cain’s house or something else entirely. As much as he wants to inquire, he has pressing questions that need answers. 

“How was it?” Castiel asks.

“…too easy? Fuckin’ weird — pretty much cult-ish,” Dean heaves out, Castiel’s brows pinching in question. “Something weird happened that I can’t quite get my head around. Long story short, I need you to help me out here,” the hunter begins, Castiel giving a nod. “Went to get Kevin’s mom. The dude upfront is dead. The second guy is nailed to one of the units, is bleeding and will scream at you when you get close to it — but he’s dead. No pulse. Nothing. Also the words ‘Lazarus has risen’ is written above him,” Dean ticks off. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

Castiel goes silent, face becoming so vacant that Dean swears that the angel is off somewhere else. The angel finally moves, nodding. “Yes, I am familiar with it,” the angel replies slowly, now his turn to cast a worrying look onto Dean.

“Okay, well, what is it,” Dean asks when the angel doesn’t appear he wishes to elaborate. 

“It’s one of the seals to Lucifer’s Cage.” 

Dean’s chair scrapes against the floor as he abruptly gets to his feet. 

“Dean,” Castiel begins gently, attempting to calm the instant fire burning in his friend’s belly. 

Dean shakes his head and points a finger at the seated angel. “Don’t follow me.” The angel frowns with disapproval at the command, but Dean doesn’t give him the option to speak. Instead, Dean storms out of the observatory, livid and alive with fury. The marking on his forearm itches with delight, Dean aggressively scratching at it. 

He knew it. He fucking knew it. Dean doesn’t know how he did it, but he knows Lucifer is behind it. Who else would have incentive to break the seals? Surely not Crowley. Not Abaddon with her whole queendom and independent rule. It has to be Lucifer — god, he **_told_** Sam this would happen! He knew it! The minute they let Lucifer out a seal is broken. 

Dean doesn’t care for its implications or the fact it’s breaking a seal to an already open cell. All he cares about is breaking the archangel’s face wide open. Making a detour to his room, he fishes for his firearm, knowing fists just won’t get the point across. It’s a damn shame he doesn’t have the Colt, knowing that is a gun that has kicked the Devil down (even if for a moment). 

The hunter finds Lucifer in the library, perusing through the bookshelves — 

_**BANG!** _

It hits the back of Lucifer’s skull, his head snapping violently forward. The archangel remains standing, blood coating golden hair, the wound abrasive and open. Lucifer turns around and glares at Dean, the hunter noticing the discoloration and irritation in the archangels left eye. The bullet must have struck something important or wedged somewhere near the area seeing the lack of an exit wound. 

“You broke that seal, didn’t you,” Dean hisses out, aware of the sound of voices at the other side of the bunker, inquiring about the sound of a gun going off. Dean moves closer, powered by furry and the fact he was right all along about this sick son of a bitch.

Lucifer stares, frown deepening on his face. “Yes,” he issues out firmly — 

Dean hits him with the firearm, the archangel hissing in irritation. Blue eyes, unnaturally bright in contrast to the red veins and irritation overcoming his eyes, lock onto Dean’s. “You would hurt your Creator?” Lucifer grits out at the level of disrespect and harm done against him. Dean gives Lucifer an incredulous look. “Take five steps back and drop the gun,” the archangel orders and Dean finds himself taking a step back. 

Whenever Dean tries to resist, his forearm burns, the Mark throbbing and seizing angrily. The hunter can only gnash his teeth in fury at being restrained. By the time Dean takes the fourth step, Sam has reached the scene, staring bewilderingly at the two. 

“He did it — I told you, Sam! I fucking told you,” Dean hollers, taking a final step back and dropping the gun. Sam rushes over to Lucifer, fingers tentatively touching the swelling cheek and nose before looking back to see the wound.

“Jesus Christ, Dean! You can’t just shoot him!” Sam protests, already rushing out apologies to Lucifer, moving his hand over the wound to stop it from bleeding even though he knows it’s unnecessary. 

“He broke a seal, Sam! That was a seal! It was fucking him!” Dean snaps out, making a motion to Lucifer. “Ask him. Ask him if he broke that seal. Ask him,” he encourages aggressively. 

Sam gives a troubled look at Dean before turning to Lucifer. “Did…were you behind that?” he asks softly. Sam pulls his hand away the minute Lucifer nods. 

“Yes.” 

The hunter takes a few steps back from Lucifer and hates the way he feels surprised by this. He should have known better. The archangel’s face drops from its passivity into a somber look as Sam moves away from him. 

“Awesome, now everyone knows this asshole is back. Everything is…fucked up. Who knows if we’ve been followed now! Who knows anymore!” Dean hisses out.

Sam stares in disappointment at the archangel, Castiel soon joining the scene. Sam stays put as Lucifer is escorted to the cell behind the shelves. There are other raging emotions coursing through him but Sam can’t make sense of them, staring blearily at his hand coated with Lucifer’s blood. 

Sam tells himself it’s worry that Dean might take it too far that he does finally head to the cell with the others.

Sam has never seen Dean so wound up. Teeth barred and mouth working so fast his teeth clicks with each word. “We were never safe to begin with the minute you let that piece of shit in!” Dean is howling and Sam can taste the fear off each note that scrapes out of his gullet. Dean’s scared, too. He can’t stop pacing, staring nervously and jabbing his finger at the bleeding Devil in the middle of the bunker’s makeshift cell. The fear is overwhelming and suffocating, his pores feeling clogged with the emotion and creating grease over his skin. Sam can’t stop himself from rubbing the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead.

He’s never felt so lost.

“This was supposed to be our home, Sam! Our home! Who is to say that tomorrow we won’t find all of Heaven and Hell knocking at our door thanks to him?!” Sam doesn’t know what to say. He can only stare helplessly at his brother who is on a verbal rampage, shouting at the blond who frowns at the Winchester’s barbs. But there is that glint of knowledge at the situation, as if Lucifer already dug to the heart of the matter and was left wondering when Dean, too, would drop the pretenses. “You know what… You know what I think,” Dean’s voice begins low, a new train of thought maneuvering his verbiage in a destructive direction, “I think that the reason he keeps himself like this is to suck you in.” His words and thoughts begin to wildly pick up in speed, “Sympathy for the devil bullshit! Are you listening to me?!”

Dean only pauses to suck the air in for breath. “Why else would he do this?! He’s been tricking you! Sam, he lied! This is to get inside your head again, Sam. So that when he’s ready to fucking go, he can just jump right on into you — ”

“ _Enough, Dean!_ ” Sam snarls, turning on his sibling who only glowers in return. “You need to calm down,” the youngest bites out slowly. Dean only sneaks a glance past Sam’s shoulder before spinning on his heel, slamming the room’s door violently behind him. The gloom of the lit bulbs behind them is left keeping them both company. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe Sam doesn’t want to truly see the devil in completion, yet he can’t help trying to.

Lucifer’s borrowed clothes are stained in blood and his nose looks severely broken, the ridge jutting out as flesh swells amongst it. The archangel looks haggard and worn in the seat, chains thick on his neck and cuffs heavy on his wrist, scrawled on with permanent marker Enochian sigils and the cell adorned with equally new symbols. Lucifer works his jaw until it pops, issuing out a sigh, “You know these bindings and chains will not hold me.”

Sam nods. He knows. He should’ve known. There’s nothing in the bunker or some convenient marking that can stop the Devil. Sam doubts a circle of holy oil would stop the archangel from finding some way to break through it. “I know,” he repeats his affirmation out loud, “but I know that you won’t break through them because I’m telling you not to.” It sounds nothing short from stupid, but he knows it to be true. Lucifer lets his head move down to stare at the iron on his wrists, body easing into the uncomfortable seat as if on command. Lucifer idly rubs the blood on the pads of his fingers together before tilting his head up. Sam can almost see the blue in the archangel’s eyes in the darkness of the cell.

For the past couple of days, it’s been a debate as to whether Lucifer loves his freedom more than Sam or vice versa. At this moment, he finally knows what he wants. 

“I have been waiting for you in a cell for a very long time,” Lucifer states gently, “and I will still continue to wait for you.”

This is where it all ends.


	17. Hammer of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Damn right they're flawed. But a lot of them try. To do better, to forgive..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from 5.19, Hammer of the Gods.
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of services. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely!

There is an old, familiar hell bubbling inside of Dean Winchester. There is Alastair’s voice purring in his ear, reminding him of a time he picked up that blade and carved his strength into screaming souls.

It sits in his throat like burning coals, sizzling and burning away in his gullet until he can taste the smoke of his fury. Dean storms his way outside of the bunker out of self-preservation, the air cool against his heated cheeks, drinking the air in with greedy gulps. He can still taste the smoke. The Mark of Cain throbs to the beat of his racing heart, feeling sore and heavy on his arm. Eyes accusingly turn to it not because he is angered it is there, but that it betrayed him. It didn’t listen to _him_. It listened to the Devil and the idea of a choke chain makes his teeth drag against each other. 

The breaking of seals. That stokes the fire in his gut, but it is being pulled to do another’s bidding that infuriates the Winchester. 

Dean kicks at the ground, stirring dirt and leaves. His fingers scratch at his scalp as he tries to rummage through his thoughts and the wool of his anger. He always knew Lucifer would trick Sam. He’s not sure of the importance of breaking seals, however. What he does know is that it’s nothing but reminiscent to Hell’s doing. Hell greedily broke the seals to ensure Lucifer’s freedom. Could this be something similar? Maybe he should just take the angel blade in the back of the Impala and shove it up Lucifer’s ass while they have the opportunity to do so. 

The hunter pats down his own pockets for his car keys. His keys aren’t on him. The brunette scowls and marches towards the door, pausing when Castiel emerges from it. 

“I’m going to gut that son of a bitch,” Dean proclaims to the arriving angel, feeling the need to share. Castiel’s lips form a thin line as he moves closer to him, shaking his head. “He broke a seal, Cas! Who is to say he’s not going to break more? The fact he did it behind our backs says something!” he adds a bit forcefully, his finger jabbing at the angel in the air. He can feel his anger picking up and it feels good to just sink into it. A part of him feels guilty over how satisfying it is to take it out on Cas.

“I understand your anger, Dean — ”

“ _Good!_ Let me pop the trunk and we can end this now,” Dean interjects, moving past Cas and clapping him on the shoulder. The angel isn’t sturdy under his hand. He stumbles at the gesture, off-kilter and regaining his footing. Dean frowns, shooting Cas a quizzical look.

Castiel sighs and brushes the imaginary dirt off his torso. “Dean, it seems unwise to act so rashly. There are too many events going on at once. There isn’t room to be making hasty decisions — ”

“ _Jesus fuck, Cas. Are you listening to yourself?_ ” the hunter huffs in dismay, opening the bunker’s door and moving down the steps. Castiel follows after him, closing the door after him and attempting to match Dean’s hurried pace. “Let’s be honest here, Cas, we all knew this was going to happen. Maybe not like this,” Dean adds, stopping at the end of the stairs to twist and look up at the angel, “But where we just have to…finish where we started. Why should I have to wait for him to fuck us over again to act? Why not just nip this in the bud now?” The hunter gives a knowing look and moves deeper into the bunker in search for the Impala’s keys. There is something disquieting and intense about his gaze that causes Cas’ forehead to crease.

“Dean…” the angel sighs, trailing after him, “Just wait. If you won’t wait for Sam, wait for me.” 

Dean works his jaw, lips pursed in displeasure. He seems to be contemplating the angel’s words.

Castiel sighs in relief when Dean opens his mouth and gives a deflating exhale. The hunter begrudgingly moves to the table and makes a show of pulling the chair out before sitting down. “This is bullshit,” he comments out loud to the table. The angel cannot be bothered to take offense over Dean’s words. He moves over and takes a seat across from Dean, offering a small smile that goes unanswered.

———————————————————————————————————————

The bullet still sits behind his left eye.

Grace nibbles and gradually chips away at the metal, Lucifer’s left eye irritated, but not enough to incite the archangel to pick at it. He remains seated, watching Sam somberly as he closes the door to the room. All Lucifer can see are Sam’s hunched over shoulders and his bowed head, a hand resting against the door. The hunter returns with careful steps, eyes not quite meeting his and grabbing the other metal chair. It drags across the floor before Sam sits in front of him. 

Sam looks tired. 

He looks disappointed. 

Time has always been short with them. He chose to make a move that might prolong it. Without a functional Cage, he cannot be forced to return to a state of permanent solitude. Being brought out of The Cage was a second chance to reforge his future. There’s no such thing as being given a third chance. Lucifer won’t bother justifying that he felt his hand pushed when hearing of Michael’s work on the other side of the country. 

There are two parts to his reactions to Michael’s deliberate breaking of the seals: it made him aware of the possibility of a broken Cage, and if Michael continues on, there will be consequences that might fall on him. The last person who made movement to break the seals were allies of Hell and it was to ensure their ‘Creator’ arose from his Cage. In the end, however, Lucifer made the choice, just as he did with Sam years ago. He made the choice to abandon this courtship of understanding to keep his freedom. There seems to be nothing but misery whenever he tries to grab for his freedom. He only hopes Sam will understand that he wasn’t making an attempt to abuse his trust. 

Knowing Sam is disappointed in him hurts far worse than a kick out of Heaven. That’s why this decision — this offer — to sit in this cell till it pleases Sam leaves his mouth. If Sam wants him to sit in the Cage till all planes of existence cease to exist, he’ll do it. He’ll do it for Sam. It’s not a decision. It’s catharsis. 

_Sam will always be more important than my freedom and pride._

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Lucifer breaks the silence, watching Sam work his jaw and stare down at his feet. 

That draws Sam’s eyes to him and only more silence greets him. The brunette sighs through his nose, lets his hands pat his own knees and rises to his feet. Lucifer watches Sam leave, feeling his body shift as if to get up and ask for him to stay, but he aborts the movement. “Sam…” is all he can muster, voice albeit softer this time. Sam doesn’t answer back. The archangel sits back in the chair, listening to the opening of the door and the quiet click as it closes.

Lucifer watches the door for a few moments, fingers still on the metal armrests. He finally pulls his gaze away from it, turning to examine the room he’s in. His interest dies quickly, eyes returning to the door. 

It’s surprising when the door opens and Sam slides back in, closing the door behind him with a first aid kit in his hand. The blond restrains himself from rising up to meet Sam and smiling, but the metal of the shackles clattering against the other is sobering. Lucifer keeps still in his seat, watching Sam open the kit and pull out cotton balls and rubbing alcohol. He pulls out a small, white piece of cloth and moves over to the dingy sink in the room to wet it. While relieved to have Sam in his presence, he’s still confused, sitting forward in his chair as Sam tries to clean the entry wound on the back of his head with the wet cloth. He doesn’t quite understand. He was certain Sam wouldn’t return, or at least pay him this respect. Was this forgiveness? A sign Sam is willing to listen to him? 

“Sam…” he asks and the hunter sighs. The hoard of questions sitting behind one word is easily translated by the Winchester. 

“I know,” Sam replies, carefully cleaning off the blood matted in his hair. “I…” the hunter pauses, head shaking lightly as if trying to search for the right words, “I’m pissed, Lucifer. I’m upset that this had to happen but, most importantly, I’m really upset that you didn’t tell me.” 

“I’m sorry…”

Silence stretches before them, Sam moving to clean the blood off of his face. It’s only when the hunter begins to clean the blood off of Lucifer’s damaged nose does the archangel break the silence, a disgruntled sound hissing past his lips at the sharp throbs of pain. Sam finishes his work before pulling away from the uncomfortable blond, throwing the bloody cloth in the direction of the sink. 

The Winchester eyes Lucifer for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought and doing that nod of his whenever his thoughts are being pieced together. “Okay,” he starts, moving to grab the cotton balls and the rubbing alcohol. “Let’s just start from the beginning, I guess. The seals. Why now? Is that the only reason why you wanted to come along?” Sam continues, unscrewing the cap to the bottle. 

The archangel’s brows furrow in a moment of surprise, lips twisting in mirrored sentiment. This did not sound nor feel like an interrogation. “I do not understand. You said you were upset…” the archangel voices. It’s simply too good to be true. 

“I _am_ upset, Lucifer, but I’d rather know fully what exactly I’m upset at,” Sam diplomatically replies, the archangel’s features softening into subtle admiration and respect. Sam Winchester would be fair to the devil. “I just would appreciate it if we could return to being transparent with each other,” the hunter adds, the archangel nodding in understanding. Sam makes a move to clean the bullet wound, his palms feeling sweaty under Lucifer’s gaze. The Morning Star is looking at him as if he’s spilled light and walking divinity, a warm curl settling on the angel’s lips.

“Michael is walking on Earth. The article and reports you examined on your computer of the museum vandalism was nothing but a seal,” Lucifer replies, wincing at the rubbing alcohol touching sluggishly healing flesh, “I know it’s my brother… All aggression and…” The archangel finishes his sentence with a substituted frown that goes unseen. 

Sam tosses the bloodied cotton ball in the sink, placing the rubbing alcohol on the table before palming his face. He finds his way to his chair, Lucifer watching the disbelief and worry aging Sam’s face. His shoulders rise and fall, sighing heavily as his hand drops down to his lap. His eyes stare blankly at the metal table between them, moving an elbow to rest on the table, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I…” he begins, shaking his head as his hand falls on the table, “I don’t know how we’re going to tackle everything else and Michael.” Hazel eyes move to fix on a spot on the wall next to Lucifer, “I can’t imagine what Adam must look like if he’s still…existing…” Sam makes a face at his own words. 

Lucifer moves his shackled wrists up, the pads of his fingers resting on the edge of the table. “Michael may not be a problem,” the archangel consoles, Sam’s eyes moving back to him in confusion. “The Cage is open, Sam. To break the seals is pointless, however, if you break all the locks — ”

“You make the Cage less impossible to break out of,” Sam interjects in sudden realization, Lucifer nodding in assent. “But the Horsemen’s rings. Those can be used. Can you even break them?” 

The archangel shrugs. “I cannot say. As long as they are hidden and separated, they cannot be used to open the Cage,” he confesses. Sam moves both of his hands on the table, picking at his own fingers as he nods. 

“So you saw a chance to…make it harder for you to be returned to the Cage?” Sam supplies and the archangel gives a nod. The hunter shakes his head. He can already taste the thick bitterness of foreshadowing. “What happens when all the seals are broken? What will Michael do next? Try to reclaim Heaven? Let’s say he solves our Metatron, Abaddon and Crowley problem. Who is to say he’s not going to leave off just where he started with the Apocalypse?” Sam counters, his voice level but words cutting, “We wouldn’t have a cell that has the capabilities to hold someone like him.” 

Lucifer only stares. Sam is right. Whether Heaven is repaired or not, it is not difficult to imagine angels revisiting a familiar chapter in biblical lore out of familiarity. Others may seek it out simply to stop the cyclical madness they have been plunged into. Heaven will always back Michael. 

Lucifer feels foolish and it’s an ugly feeling, shame creeping in red across his chest underneath his shirt. Irritation towards himself is thrown into the mix. He should have known better. He should have thought through the consequences of his actions before acting upon whimsical desires.

“I know you won’t kill Michael…” Sam adds, voice hushed. The look given to him by Lucifer is strange and pensive. It oddly sounds like concern over his own safety.

Sam doesn’t press the issue any more. “Anything else?” 

The archangel pushes himself back into his seat, hands settling back on the armrests of his seat. “I’ve been…purposely burning through my vessel,” the archangel replies steadily, watching shock capture Sam’s face. 

“Wait… _what?!_ ” Sam whooshes out in disbelief, brows raised. 

He’s having a difficult time trying to understand why Lucifer would purposely sabotage his health. It leaves him stunned, gawking at the blond. “Why would you do that? Why would you burn through your vessel to remain…a sparrow?” he asks, leaning forward on the metal table separating them.

Lucifer gives an exasperated sound, a shackled wrist rising and falling uselessly in explanation. “Because I was afraid, Sam. I was afraid of something like _this_ happening if I looked human,” the chain rattling against the metal of the chair. Sam goes quiet and Lucifer fixes him with a searching look before nodding, licking a split lip and continuing on a softer note, “When I’m small and I can fit in your hands, you make me feel safe and comfortable. When I’m small I’m not ‘the Devil’ or this antagonist in your story. I’m treated as your equal — your confidant.

When I’m in this form, I feel your fear…your hesitance… There is something menacing about me that I just can’t seem to separate from.

You are overwhelmingly larger than life when I’m a little bird, but I know that you’ll never let any harm come to me. And I am overwhelmingly larger than life compared to you — a human — and I want you to feel as safe and comfortable as I do when I’m in your hands. I’ve always wanted that, Sam.” 

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s not sure how to reply.

Lucifer’s gaze turns to the open first aid kit, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth. “I read your fear in the Gospel. You dreamt and saw me hurting you. _Laughing_ at you,” he adds and Sam’s eyes close, groaning quietly. 

“Kevin…” Sam ventures with a pained expression etched on his face. Lucifer nods. 

“I would happily be a little bird for you, Sam, if it means your comfort,” the archangel finishes, voice firm and set.

Sam’s response is instant. 

The chair is raucous and jarring as it scrapes against the floor, the hunter rising to his feet. Sam picks the chair up, moving closer to the chained archangel. He takes a seat, hand reaching out and finding Lucifer’s left hand. It’s tight and warm, Grace and soul instantaneously greeting the other. “I know you can’t fit in my hands like this, but I hope you still feel safe with at least this,” Sam rushes out, words nearly colliding into each other but Lucifer doesn’t care. He’s staring at Sam as if he is his Grace in the flesh, awe and something else sitting behind his eyes. 

Lucifer squeezes his hand in turn, Sam watching cuts, bruises and swollen flesh heal. “I’m happy you’re here, Lucifer. Thank you for being honest with me,” the hunter adds, scooting closer until his knee is bumping into his. “I want you to know that. I don’t care what you look like. I’ve…I’m just happy you’re here. I know you’d never intentionally hurt me. I…” Sam shakes his head, taking a deep breath as he feels his limbs shudder at the high of cosmic wonder and soul tangling together, “I know what’s real and what isn’t.” He squeezes his hand again, as if to confirm to himself his own words, “ _This_ is real.”

The archangel gives a pleased noise, placing his other hand over Sam’s. He murmurs something in Enochian and Sam smiles as if he understands.

———————————————————————————————————————

Sam leaves in better spirits half an hour later, squeezing Lucifer’s hand and vowing he’ll do his best to diffuse the tension. This is nothing but a case of miscommunication and misunderstanding. He’s just unsure how to diplomatically explain this to Dean and whether he should do so right now. But Lucifer doesn’t deserve to remain chained in the bunker’s makeshift cell until Dean feels ready to have a conversation.

That’s even if he _wants_ to bother with conversation. 

He’s worried about Dean, but he’s unsure of how to balance being a supportive brother and maintain a semblance of peace between Dean and Lucifer. Lately Dean has been more aggressive, layers after layers after layers of irritation stacking over the other. Lucifer implied, when describing the Mark of Cain, that it holds a symbiotic relationship with its host. That the origin of the actions, the very root of the hostility and fear, comes from the carrier of the Mark. The Mark feeds on Dean and Dean feeds on it. 

Sam thinks Dean’s just terrified of the overwhelming weight of their problems that it has manifested into a quick-to-anger mentality. Sam’s not quite sure what to do, but he walks into the main section of the bunker with stubbornness to reach a resolution. 

Dean lifts his head up, makes a motion to stand up, but Sam sits down before he can complete the motion. The eldest sinks back down into the chair, hands resting on the table and staring at his brother. “Well? You see now?” Dean begins, watching Sam’s facial features carefully. “I told you, Sam. I told you. He just wants to play fast and loose with _your_ soul. He won. He tricked _you_ and broke a seal behind _your_ back,” the hunter continues, enunciating his words with the click and snap of his teeth, unwilling to let Sam interject. 

Sam briefly catches Castiel’s worried expressed before pushing his way in, “Dean. There is virtually no harm that has been done. No one got hurt, except for those demons.” Sam’s assuming those two employees were demons. He didn't think to ask. “Look, I was talking to — ”

“It’s Lucifer, Sam. The dude doesn’t do something without there being a purpose behind it!” Dean protests. 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel quietly warns and Dean fixes him with a scalding glare. 

“Dean,” Sam sighs, already feeling irritation sit on his tongue, “This has nothing to do about me or my soul. Long story short, is that there was a problem in how we communicate with the other. He saw something in the news that looked like a seal was broken and by Michael’s hands — ”

“ _Michael_ ,” Dean heaves out in disbelief, his hand slapping against the table in frustration, lips becoming a thin line. The eldest shakes his head, swearing under his breath. “As if we needed more shit on our plate, Sam!” 

“That’s not Lucifer’s fault!” Sam reminds, stopping himself afterward to take a deep breath. “Point is, Lucifer saw what happened. Wanted to guarantee his own freedom and thought breaking the remaining seals would work because he didn’t feel he’d last long in here,” the hunter issues out and Dean balks, brows pinched together. 

“How the hell does that work out? The Cage is open!” 

Castiel shifts closer in his chair, resting his elbows on the table, “Break the seals and Lucifer’s Cage is no longer as effective.” 

Dean stares at the angel before turning to Sam, lips pursed. Sam doesn’t reply, only nods in assent to Castiel’s words. The short-haired brunette brusquely pushes himself out of his chair, his hands raising up in a dismissive gesture, turning his back to the two. 

“The point is that it’s not going to happen again. There was some miscommunication on our part, but we’re on the same page now,” Sam defends, hating how poor and laughable his argument sounds to his ear. It sounds far from definitive, but how does he tell Dean that he knows that Lucifer won’t hurt him? That the archangel will not betray him? That it’s not a gut feeling, but something that is bone deep? “Please, just trust me on this one,” he adds, staring at his brother’s back. 

Dean gives a soft exhale and nods, turning around and walking around the table to meet Sam. His movements are nonthreatening and slow, Sam pushing out of his chair to meet him. There is relief sinking into his expression, his smile opening up into something warm. Dean sticks his left hand out in a shake, offering his own semblance of a smile. “Okay, Sam,” he sighs out, nodding his head again, “I understand.” 

Sam smiles brightly and rises to his feet, confused as to why he was being offered Dean’s left hand, but reaching out — 

“ _ **Dean! ******_” Castiel shouts out in dismay when a fist crashes into Sam’s jaw. There’s the sound of Castiel’s chair moving and Sam’s chair being knocked over by the younger male’s stumbling body.

“Cas, stay out of this,” the hunter seethes, twisting his head to glare at the angel with a finger pointing at him in warning. He turns his gaze back to Sam who is cradling his jaw, surprise still dancing on his face. “You have no idea how fuckin’ warped your thinking is right now,” Dean seethes, rolling his shoulders back as if he’s itching to throw in another punch. “You’re going to vouch for Lucifer because, what, you two talked about your communication problems?! **_He’s Satan, Sam!_** Honestly, he’s right to feel nervous about how long he’s going to make it in here.” 

Sam swallows and straightens himself out, dropping his hand to his side. “Dean, you’re making a mistake. It’d behoove us to just move on from this,” he explains, but Dean’s shoulders shrug as he gives his brother an incredulous look. Castiel is already maneuvering himself between the two of them, fixing Dean with a look for him to simply calm down. Dean stares right past him, eyeing Sam with contempt. 

“You know what I want to know? I want to know where my brother is. That’s what I want,” Dean voices, shifting so he can get a better look at Sam’s face. The barb seems to have hit its mark because a pained expression flitters on Sam’s face. The hunter starts on a new beat, offering a false smile, “I’ll make you a deal, Sam. I’ll move on when he moves on. How about that?” 

Sam shakes his head and that irritates Dean. “I’m not going to let you hurt him,” Sam firmly shoots back and Dean’s fingers twitch at his side. He watches his younger brother’s face twist into grief, carding a hand through his hair. “Dean… I don’t want to fight you. Not over this,” he pleads quietly. “We _can_ talk this out!”

Dean is unyielding, taking notice of Castiel’s presence when he cannot close the distance between Sam and himself. “Sam, it’s Lucifer. Don’t make me do this,” Dean replies, but his mind is already set. Lucifer is just another Ruby. Another snake in the grass that will do whatever it can to get Sam to march to its beat. Dean’s not surprised. His brother’s weakness has always been giving his trust too easily to all the wrong people. The only thing keeping him from taking another swing at his brother, in the vain hope maybe it’ll knock some sense into him, is Cas. 

Sam shakes his head, taking a few step back, but his hands are balled into tight fists, “No one makes us do anything, Dean.”


	18. Letting Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam takes his final stand and makes a difficult decision.

Sam doesn’t have the heart to fight his brother. 

There is a flurry of limbs, Castiel shouting in dismay as Dean tears out of his grip. Sam’s hands press against his brother’s chest in an attempt to push him back, but Dean is already swinging his fist. Sam’s vision is a swirl of colors when Dean’s fist sloppily hits his nose.

There is blood pouring out, reeling back as he feels it drip down onto his upper lip. The world is filled with the rancorous roar of violence, his hands touching his assaulted nose. It aches in all the wrong places, Sam guessing it broken. Hissing and feeling the back of his thighs bump into a table, he forces his eyes open. 

Dean is baring his teeth, snarling at Castiel who is refusing to move out of his way, hands gripping his shirt. It takes him a moment to straighten out his world, the noises beginning to become distinct until he can make out Dean’s words and Castiel’s raised voice. 

_“Dean, enough!”_

The hunter makes a move as if to push past the angel once more, but the move is aborted. Instead he takes a deep breath, chest rising with the motion, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m fine, Cas. Let me go,” he snarls out, Castiel’s fingers still twisted in his shirt. Castiel must have given the hunter an unconvinced look, because Dean is brusquely tearing Castiel’s hands off of his shirt. The angel remains resolute, standing between both of the Winchesters.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t lock you up with him?” Dean calls out, taking a moment to slow his breathing. The words hit their mark, Sam’s features twisting into surprised pain. The Winchester quickly smothers it, forcing his lips to form a thin line. 

“Are you serious, Dean?” Sam bites out in disbelief, raising a hand to cup his bleeding nose.

Dean makes a motion to step forward, but Castiel resolutely holds his ground, shooting a warning look at the older Winchester. “Yeah, I’m serious,” he huffs out lowly, gaze briefly turning to Castiel challengingly. “You can’t get it through your thick, fucking skull that _this_ — ” Dean points in the direction of the holding cell, “— is the Devil! He’s **using you** , Sam! Worst of all, you’re letting him get in-between us!” 

Sam only turns his gaze away from Dean, shaking his head.

“ _What_ ,” Dean’s tone is sardonic and dripping with disappointment, “you’re going to tell me that you’re not choosing to burn this bridge?” 

That stirs anger in the young Winchester, shooting Dean an incredulous look, “Right, because _I’m_ the one who is burning the bridge.” Moving his hand away from his nose, he reminds imploringly, “He’s not going to hurt anyone! It was just a simple miscommunication problem! That’s it! Fighting over this is stupid!” 

Castiel raises his voice once more, “Enough, the both of you!” 

“Oh okay,” Dean laughs darkly, ignoring Castiel’s words, “because when seals are fucking broken, it’s just a _simple miscommunication problem._ ” 

Breathing through his nostrils hurt, Sam forced to part his mouth to breathe. He grimaces as he snorts back the dripping blood, eyes scrunching together for a moment. Raising his shirt, he carefully wipes the blood still dripping out of his nose. Sam doesn’t know how to rationalize with Dean and his own patience is running thin. There’s no point conversing with a brick wall, but Sam desperately wants Dean to just understand — to just move on. 

“…what do you want, Dean?” Sam exhales in exasperation, raising his arms up before they fall back to his sides, “You want to kill him?! That’s it? End of the problem?” 

Dean’s head moves back and he gives a strained smile, replying slowly for Sam’s benefit, “Yes, Sam!” 

“It’s not going to solve anything, Dean!” 

“Well we won’t know till we try, will we?” 

Their voices are raised, shouting heatedly at the other. He can feel Castiel’s hand on his chest, Sam not sure when he closed the distance between himself and Dean. 

“You know what, Dean,” Sam seethes out, “you’re jealous. Jealous that for once, things are working out in my corner.” Dean shoots Sam a warning look, but Sam ignores it. His voice shakes with anger as he holds his ground, “You’re addicted to your own misery. Every time I’m actually doing well, you want to just bring all the old shit back. You always want to start a fight — ”

“No, Sam, this is about Lucifer — ”

“No, Dean, it’s about you! It’s always about you!” Sam snaps, raising his voice over Dean’s. “You never think about me! How your actions might hurt me! Never, Dean! You always think about yourself. That’s why Gadreel got — ”

“You were dying, Sam!”

**_“I wanted to die!”_ **

That silences the room, save for the soft sound of Sam breathing through his mouth. 

Dean looks suddenly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The discomfort irritates Dean, the older hunter shaking his head with an angry huff. He swallows thickly and issues out in offense, “Well forgive me for pulling your ass out of the fire! Forgive me for trying! Maybe I shouldn’t have… Maybe my mother would still be alive if it wasn’t for you.” 

Sam feels the wind punched out of him, watching instant regret flash on his brother’s face at his own words. There’s a tight smile on Sam’s lips, waiting for something more, but Dean remains still. Stiffly he takes a step back.

“This isn’t my brother talking,” Sam issues out brokenly, watching stubborn defiance settle on Dean’s brows, as if refusing to relinquish the reins in this argument. Sam doesn’t wait to listen to more, turning on his heels and making a beeline to the holding cell. He doesn’t want to hear anymore of this. 

“Well… Well, you never had a brother!” Dean shouts out. Sam doesn’t respond. He only picks up his pace and tightens his hands into fists to hide the way his fingers shake.

\---------------------------------------------

Lucifer can hear the raised voices and he twitches in restraint throughout the interaction, forcing himself to stay put unless instructed otherwise. When Sam enters the room, door slamming open, Lucifer is instantly pulling against his restraints in a plea to be given permission to approach him. Sam’s movements are erratic as he closes the door behind him, fists uncurling and hands shaking. Lucifer’s face darkens at the sight of blood and there is the ugly temptation to abuse his control over the Mark of Cain.

“Sam,” he breathes out. The hunter sags against the door, a hand shakily moving up to push fingers through his hair. Lucifer remains put, poised and at the ready until Sam makes a tired gesture with his hand towards him. Instantly Lucifer is by his side, restraints left undone on the chair. The archangel can see the inflamed flesh on his cheek alongside the assaulted nose, blood staining his shirt and skin. A dark sound burns in his throat at the sight. “Sam…” he heaves out, more than willing to eradicate the entirety of the bunker for Sam, but the Winchester is shaking his head. 

The archangel begrudgingly complies, brows pinched in concern as chilled fingers move to heal his injuries.

Sam’s hand moves to push Lucifer’s away, but warm fingers catches his fingers, curling around them tightly. 

“No…” Sam closes his eyes, “I want to keep it.”

The blond stares at Sam, watching the younger male’s jaw tighten, body wracked with a fine tremble. He’s desperately keeping himself together, willing his expression to remain neutral, but it’s only succeeding in pulling him apart. Sam’s trying to keep a brave face and Lucifer knows it’s not for his benefit. 

There is a moment of deja vu as Lucifer watches Sam raise his free hand to dig a knuckle into one of his eyes. This is the free fall — that moment where the ground disappears from underneath your feet, your gut twists, and you’re crippled by the idea of being alone in this fight. So to save face — to cope and push forward — you bottle it in until your bones become brittle and throat becomes lodged with unheard screams. But in the face of it all, he grits his teeth and with unyielding conviction he repeats he will keep it. 

_“I want to keep it.”_

He’ll keep the bruises, blood and broken bones. He will not so easily let himself forget these assaults. Despite the confusion anger brings, it’s a more tolerable companion than sorrow. The physical pain keeps the anger bright, Sam using in to his advantage to strangle the pressing need to cry.

Lucifer sees himself in Sam. Sees something wounded and hurt trying so hard not to admit that they found their new bottom. 

The archangel boldly slides his fingers through Sam’s, coaxes Sam’s fingers to follow suit, and murmurs gently, “I’m here. What do you want to do?” 

Sam gives a shaky inhale, opening his eyes and searching for answers on the floor. His spare hand drops uselessly at his side. “I want to leave,” he concludes softly, turning his head to Lucifer. The blond nods in agreement. “I…uh,” Sam adds, fingers tightening around Lucifer’s, “I… Are you able to just zap me into my room? I need a few things. I just don’t want to see…” 

The words become lost in silence, but Lucifer nods in understanding. 

Without prompt, the two of them are pulled from the holding cell to Sam’s room. There is a small sigh in relief from Sam, the hunter squeezing Lucifer’s hand once before relinquishing it. Packing is a pleasant distractor, the younger male breathing shallowly through his mouth as blood dries on his skin. Lucifer remains put, listening to the internal workings of the bunker as he keeps his eyes on Sam. Sam’s movements are tired, but he forces his body to move quickly. His hands shake as he folds his clothes and sometimes he’ll pause, a choked sound wet and trapped in his throat. The hunter brutally pinches himself on the arm to stop. 

Right now Sam wants to leave. To put distance between the scene of the crime and himself. As much as Lucifer wishes to set the hunter down, to give him the rare luxury to relinquish this brave front, now is not the time nor the place. 

It’s only when Sam is beginning to finish filling his duffle bag with clothes and a few favorite tomes does Lucifer clear his throat. 

“Should I pack a bag?” he asks and Sam pauses in his movements, turning to face the blond.

Sam nods instantly, “I want you to come with me.” 

Lucifer nods in assent and Sam’s lips twitch in a semblance of a smile. He moves through his room and hands Lucifer a bag. Sam ends up helping the archangel pack, snorting in disbelief at Lucifer’s concept of packing. He refolds the clothes he picked for the archangel, neatly placing them back in as the blond observes his technique. 

By the time the two are finished, Sam’s room is bare. Any mementos are packed and Sam reluctantly lets the boxes of files in his room untouched. Lucifer keeps put by the door as Sam takes one last look at his room. Sam’s items — his life — is packed in two bags. It dawns upon the Morning Star that the Winchester has no intention of returning back to the bunker. 

This is his goodbye.

\---------------------------------------------

Sam is certain he’s going to break.

Being alone with his thoughts is deadly and he insists the two of them steal a car for their journey. While Lucifer appears more than healthy to fly them anywhere, Sam would rather undergo the journey by car. He can mentally check out when driving, moving on autopilot when on the road. Sam doesn't want to reflect on what just happened or debate with himself as to whether that was Dean talking or the Mark of Cain. 

A part of him already knows the answer to that riddle.

It’s Lucifer who suggests heading to Flagstaff. He suggests a point on the map — a goal. Sam’s grateful for it, not quite sure what to do once they started up the car. He’s not quite sure what to do anymore and he lets Lucifer gently nudge him about. Flagstaff immediately summons comforting thoughts, nodding in agreement. He wants the isolation and the snow blanketing the world all around him. He wants that soft pause of breath the world gives when winter strikes.

Lucifer fills the space with old stories, voice soft and relaxing in the confines of the vehicle. It steadies the erratic beating of Sam’s heart and distracts him from what he just left. 

The blood has long ago become crimson crust on his skin, still wearing his blood-stained shirt. It aches to take deep breaths through his nose and he knows it’s nothing but foolish to let his nose go untended to. Sam keeps it, doesn’t address the pain as he lets his foot go heavy on the pedal. Lucifer, a disheveled mess on his own, is given the task of going in and out of the gas station for food once they hit the Kansas-Colorado border. The archangel looks mortified at the idea of conversing with humans and dealing with currency. Sam does his best to keep his smile to himself as Lucifer grumbles and drags his feet into the gas station.

Sam keeps his head down as he fills the car with gas. His fingers will often seek out the soft flesh in his arm, pinching it viciously whenever he feels his jaw shake. Sam quickly forces himself into the stolen car when he’s finished, a patch of his arm a blistering red. He angrily swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

The archangel returns ten minutes later with one hand carrying a bag of assorted items and other hand with change. The blond makes a face when he’s faced with the dilemma of how to open the door with his hands full. Sam’s already chuckling by the time Lucifer opens the door, having shoved the change in his pocket. He awards Sam with an exasperated expression, stiffly sitting in the passenger seat. 

“Well?” 

Lucifer hands over the bag, instantly wiping his palm against the front of his jeans. 

“I watched the clerk scratch himself before he handed me the items and my change,” he bitter replies, looking more than uncomfortable that said change is now in his pocket. 

“Scratch himself?” Sam grins and Lucifer only makes an uncomfortable sound, urging Sam to only chuckle some more. The sound hurts passing through his throat, but he needs it. Sam only stops when it makes his nose ache in pain, reaching out to pat the archangel fondly on the arm. He misses the way Lucifer stares at his arm. 

The rest of the ride is uneventful. All Sam can smell is blood. Everything still feels surreal, today's events lurking in the backdrop of his skull.

They drive a few more hours into Colorado, Sam’s body aching from the drive and growing tired of the music playing out of the radio. By the time they head into a motel the sky is heavy with clouds, the world casted into a dark gloom. Lucifer rolls his shoulders and eyes Sam curiously as he exits the car. The hunter fiddles with his wallet for a moment before turning to Lucifer. He’s not sure if he wants to use any of the cards in his wallet just yet. A part of him wants Dean to find him. He wants some sort of miracle moment to occur where the two can hash things out and come out stronger. The other part wants to remain unfound. 

Blue eyes blink at Sam before Lucifer is moving to one of the doors, opening it as if it was always unlocked. Sam doesn’t question how Lucifer knows. The two grab the bags in the car and move into the room, greeted with the scent of dust. The room is tiny and barren with its lukewarm coat of blue paint and outdated furniture. Sam picks up his backpack on the floor and puts it on the queen size bed, pulling at the zipper. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but he rummages about with a false sense of purpose. 

It’s only when he feels cool fingers touch his elbow does he pause.

“You need to wash up,” Lucifer gently orders, “And your nose needs to be set.” 

Sam nods numbly and makes his way to the bathroom, feeling Lucifer’s presence close behind him. Flicking the lights on, he stares at the bruised face staring back at him. Exhaustion has given his eyes a sunken and hollowed out look, his lips colored in red and nose crooked. Sam thinks of Benny and the false text messages Dean has sent to his phone. Sam thinks of the church, Dean hotly naming off old crimes Sam has yet to truly repent for. He thinks of that terrifying desire to just end his life — that only doing so will he truly be clean. He thinks of Dean letting an angel walk inside of him, keeping it a secret until Sam discovers the truth through Lucifer. He thinks of the way the two have been butting heads, everything seeming to lead up to this moment. The younger hunter is hurt and upset that his own brother can’t seem to view him as an equal. He feels unsafe in Dean’s presence and it makes him grind his teeth in frustration. 

Turning to Lucifer abruptly, he motions to his nose with his finger. “You should do it,” he heaves out and Lucifer moves forward. Chilled fingers settle around the bridge of his nose, swiftly aligning the broken nose, Sam groaning in pain. There are tears running down his cheeks as he grits through the pain, dropping his head as Lucifer’s hands fall back to his sides. 

His shoulders shake, a choked sob leaving his lips. Sam feels drained and wronged. He wants to desperately pull himself back together, but it only serves to make his chest ache. The Winchester isn’t sure when he moved forward, but his hands are reaching out to fist into the blond’s shirt. The archangel’s arms are tight around him and Sam ignores the dull throbs of pain as he rests his forehead against the blond’s shoulder. 

Sam finally lets go and it’s with the Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DEAN:** What about Sam?   
> **2014!DEAN:** Heavyweight showdown in Detroit. From what I understand, Sam didn't make it.   
> **DEAN:** You weren't with him?   
> **2014!DEAN:** No. No, me and Sam, we haven't talked in—hell, five years... (5.04)


	19. Birds of a Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters individually struggle to clear their heads and find sense in the aftermath of Sam leaving the bunker. Meanwhile, two other players make their move...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to callmedesdinova for being my beta for this chapter!

The birds have flocked to the scent of decay, picking at the carcasses and remains of obliterated vessels, the result of flesh being incompatible with Grace. The stench of cooked flesh is nauseating, some of the bodies still smoking from the failed attempt. Angels were never meant for Earth, let alone to coexist with humans. A golden-haired angel sneers in disappointment at the forced close-up of his Father’s _finest_ work. Carrion crows have become a mass of black feathers over the gravesite, surprisingly quiet as they feast. One bird stands out amongst the sea of black, towering over the crows with a head of stained, rust-colored feathers and bright red circling its eyes. It doesn’t partake in the feast, only observes from its corner. 

Bartholomew is far from impressed with the sight, viewing the dead through a window, and promptly turns on his heels to leave the scene. The young angel has pulled himself from the ashes of their forced Fall to aid his siblings and, ultimately, reclaim Heaven. What truly led to their Fall remains vague, but the consensus amongst the homeless race is that Castiel is to blame. 

The angels are lost without their connection to Heaven, feeding off of the Earth’s ozone and struggling to contact compatible vessels. A few have even gathered whatever remaining Grace they hold to seek out a different planet for sanctuary. Bartholomew doubts an angel has successfully completed their journey. The golden-haired angel found his place as a leader thanks to how quickly he found a compatible vessel. He slid into his vessel’s eye sockets and burned his scriptures into his skull. With a sharp, bleached white smile, he has gone to great lengths to find his siblings and help them integrate into Earth. 

Bartholomew has created a makeshift version of Heaven in warehouses and office buildings. Their world is clean, tidy, and orderly, angels greedily seeking out what is familiar to them. Bartholomew ensures that his territory and those who occupy it emulate Heaven: clean cut angels who discreetly wipe the blood off their hands. Unfortunately, while his numbers are great, many of his allies remain without a vessel. As a solution, Bartholomew has taken to manipulating the religious, performing superficial ‘miracles’ to convince them he is a figure of divine authority. They give their consent too easily, and his siblings rush in, all blinding light and noise. Either the vessels keep or they combust the moment the angel fully sits in the body. 

“Folks, like I've been telling you, we're in that most sacred of times,” a voice filters through as Bartholomew quietly enters the next room in the warehouse, revealing a modest-sized studio. A rather squat man is sitting behind a desk on set, lights beaming down on him as staff carefully monitor the equipment. The only anomaly is a young girl in a cardigan standing far off, nervously holding onto her clipboard. “A legion of angels reaches out for us. Can you feel their divine presence? And if you do, there's nothing to fear. Heck no!” The squat man grins at the camera, “If the angels come a-knocking, you just let 'em on in and fill yourself up with their Grace. This is the Reverend Buddy Boyle in the "Goin' for Glory Hour" wishing you a most blessed day. Amen.”

“And we’re clear,” a voice crisply calls out, the room suddenly filled with light as the studio’s lights go up.

Bartholomew forces his mouth to form a smile, feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten as he moves closer to the set. “Beautiful, Buddy. One of your best,” he compliments the squat man. The man gives a flustered sort of sound, inclining his head in gratitude. Bartholomew has stumbled upon this minister by accident, observing the blind faith others would place in Buddy Boyle’s words. They accepted his interpretation on biblical verses and mindlessly followed his advice without much thought. On a whim, Bartholomew invested in the minister. Had the angels who held sturdy vessels keep an eye on Buddy’s followers, manipulating on their own end to circumvent true consent. 

Bartholomew is looking for consent given out of blind faith and he has found it. 

“Oh, well, that is high praise, sir,” he begins, hands aimlessly moving in the air before being quickly dropped to his sides, “seeing as how you’re an emissary of the man upstairs himself. Thank you, Bart.”

Bartholomew’s smile tightens, teeth grinding together, correcting the man gently, “It’s Bartholomew,” the blond angel takes his time smoothing his suit, letting the words slowly roll off his tongue, “and I have to say, God has personally assured me that he is highly pleased with your work. He…” the angel pauses, stopping himself from openly sighing in disbelief, “ _prepareth_ a special reward for helping him populate a true heaven on Earth.”

“Well, between you and me, it’s practically reward enough being one of the few humans of all time to get orders from an actual angel. But if he prepareth, I am honored,” Buddy jovially replies. 

Bartholomew’s smile has turned strained and dangerous. “Terrific.” 

“Sir?” a voice interjects, both males turning to eye the woman in the cardigan. She glances at the two of them before straightening her posture, speaking with conviction, “I’m ready.”

The blond quirks a brow, head cocked to the right, “Oh?” 

“Let me be a vessel for the divine. I give myself over to you,” she continues, offering a brave smile to the angel. Buddy is busy grinning in admiration, turning expectantly to Bartholomew who is regarding the young woman. 

“Yes. Well…if you’re certain,” he drawls slowly, watching her confidently nod in response. The angel raises his hands, waiting for one of his siblings lingering in the warehouse to come spilling into the room in a tremendous show of light. 

To Bartholomew’s surprise there is no answer.

The angel drops his hands, turning in question, eyeing the studio for a sign of loose, roaming Grace. Buddy gives a nervous laugh that instantly serves to irritate Bartholomew, rambling out an excuse for the blond angel’s benefit. With a barely restrained hiss, Bartholomew stiffly excuses himself and exits the studio in search of an explanation. 

The angel moves quickly through the building, lips pulled into a thin line as he searches for Grace or any of his other siblings who have their vessels. He glances out of the window at the plot of failed vessels and finds the birds have left. All that remains is shattered bones. This side of the warehouse remains empty. He calls out for his brothers, voice shattering bulbs as Grace shakes the foundations of the building. Still there is no answer, and his anger begins to fade into confusion. 

“Speaking on our Father’s behalf is unwise, Bartholomew,” a voice breaks through the silence from behind him. “Especially with Him gone…”

The blond angel spins on his heels, staring at young, dark-haired male. The flesh on his cheekbones is thin, skin peeling, and his eyes are bloodshot, Grace swimming through the red. There is blood smeared across his neck and lips, giving the decaying male a predatory appearance. But that’s not what has Bartholomew dumfounded. His Grace instantly shrinks within itself when it realizes who is occupying the poorly composed image before him. 

“Michael…” the blond heaves out in a rush of air. 

The archangel puts his fingers to his lips and softly shushes him. 

\---------------------------------------------

Sam finds himself tucked into bed once he has been coaxed into clean clothes and the blood is washed from his skin. ‘ _It’s unfair’_ falls repeatedly from the hunter’s lips in a heated rage only to fade into something broken and quiet. He misses Dean fiercely, but he’s too hurt and angry to forgive him. Sam knows that if the archangel could, Lucifer would snap his fingers and will a happier conclusion. The hunter doubts Grace could perform such feats, so he takes solace in the way Lucifer tends to him. It’s Lucifer’s turn to pick him up and help him heal, the thought pulling a small smile from his lips. The red-eyed Winchester quickly falls asleep when Lucifer joins him, their knees bumping underneath the sheets. Warm fingers instantly seek out the blond, curling into his shirt and refusing to let go.

When Sam wakes it’s with a soft sound in surprise when he finds the dingy motel room has changed. The sheets are thicker and soft against his skin and the air smells of pine needles. The wallpaper is a deep, cerulean blue with dull, geometrical golden patterns running across it. Sam gapes at the change in decor, turning to Lucifer’s spot on the bed only to find it empty. Brows pinching together in concern, he pushes the sheets off of him and slides off the bed. The hunter nearly groans when his feet sink into the ivory-hued carpet. He childishly wiggles his toes into it. 

“Lucifer?” Sam calls out and there is the soft sound of something shifting followed by a small peep. The hunter is instantly alert, carefully examining his surroundings until he finds Lucifer’s clothes in a pile next to the table. Fingers pick at the discarded shirt to find a little head popping out. His brown feathers are ruffled and he’s peeping in indignation. The sparrow eases at the sight of Sam, carefully climbing over the obstacle course of clothes. The Winchester slowly maneuvers himself so he’s sitting down, moving his thumb to stroke the sparrow’s head. 

“Did you do all of this for me?” he asks. The sparrow peeps in return, eyes closed at Sam’s touch. “Thank you.” Lucifer must have used a lot of energy to make this change, and Sam turns his head to gaze at the new amenities added to the room. The motel room is larger and light spills through the gap in the curtains, casting the room in a warm glow. Sam spots food neatly arranged on top of the dresser, and on cue, the hunter’s stomach rumbles for attention. He’s awestruck and captivated by the transformation, and his troubles with Dean feel so far away. 

The archangel chirps for attention, challenging Sam’s rumbling stomach for it. The hunter turns his head to Lucifer, witnessing the little bird effortlessly fly onto the table next to them. It’s been too long since he’s examined the state of Lucifer’s wings, let alone work on his flying. So to see him display his wings proudly, puttering about on the table with them stretched out, he can’t help but admire the archangel. 

“They look beautiful,” he compliments with a grin, rising to his feet to watch the bird. The little sparrow sings in turn, pulling its wings back to its side before settling down. Sam moves closer to the table to admire Lucifer’s wings, and he can only imagine what the archangel’s wings must truly look like at the moment. Lucifer gives a satisfactory sound at the admiration and sits down, moving a wing as if dismissing Sam. The hunter snorts in disbelief. 

Sam doesn’t waste any time grabbing a plate of food, smiling to himself when he sees all of his favorites. There’s a coffee pot plugged in and softly gurgling to itself, and Sam greedily grabs himself a mug. Pouring himself a cup and already in better spirits, he makes his way back to the table. Sam pulls the curtains open, and Lucifer shuffles closer to the beams of light, warming himself in the sun. 

The two of them moved onto the bed after breakfast, watching reruns mindlessly on the television. It takes till the early afternoon for Lucifer to shift back, blond hair a wild mess and bare-limbed. Sam offers him a smile as the archangel stretches on the bed next to him, slowly sliding off to pick his clothes up. The brunette watches him dress, feeling heat spread across his chest when the blond catches him staring. Sam surprises himself by not turning away, instead readjusting himself on the bed and patting the spot next to him. Lucifer moves and settles beside Sam, their arms pressing against the other. 

“I don’t know what to do now,” Sam confesses softly, feeling Lucifer shift to look at him. “There’s so much that has to be taken care of, Luce,” the hunter sighs, turning his head to meet Lucifer’s gaze. “I’m…I’m glad I’m here,” Sam continues. He knows it’s for the best to leave the bunker — to create distance between Dean and himself. For too long has he allowed his feelings to take a backseat, and as much as he loves his brother, he cannot apologize on Dean’s behalf. That’s not how this works. “But I just can’t ignore all the other problems out there because I left the bunker.” 

Lucifer is quiet, a thoughtful expression on his face as he shifts further onto his side. “List them for me again?” he asks. 

“Metatron, Abaddon, Crowley, Michael, Bartholomew, and all of the other angels on Earth,” Sam ticks off, exhausted by the time he finishes. They haven’t even taken care of one of these nuisances, and the realization of such does nothing to ease Sam’s nerves. “I just feel like I could drown in all of the problems that continue to stack up — hell, add Dean to the list. I don’t want him having that Mark, Luce,” Sam adds, and the archangel’s expression turns grim. 

“You know my conditions for the Mark,” he replies quietly. Sam groans in dismay. 

“I know he has to figure whatever lesson it is by himself, but just… Just,” Sam moves a hand to scratch angrily at his scalp in exasperation, “just promise me you’ll at least consider removing it when things improve. Please?”

Lucifer blinks, blue eyes staring elsewhere before giving a nod, “I promise you I will consider removing it. I’m only doing so for you, Sam” 

Sam makes a soft sound in relief and nothing more, his fingers reaching out to lay against Lucifer’s abdomen in appreciation. The archangel stares quietly at the fingers before carefully moving his hand over Sam’s, glancing at the Winchester for approval. The hunter only sighs and lets the entirety of his hand rest on the archangel’s abdomen. 

“I want to go to Flagstaff, but I’m just… What about everything else? I can’t just let Dean tackle this all on his own, but I don’t want to go back and find our problems taking a backseat again,” the hunter sighs out, Lucifer curling his fingers around his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. 

“We can still go to Flagstaff. You don’t have to take down every walking nightmare on this planet. You have the right to give yourself a moment to think,” Lucifer reminds. Sam hums in agreement, closing his eyes and sinking further into the propped up pillows behind him. He can’t shake off the creeping sensation that Dean will never reach out to him and apologize. 

“I do have good news,” Lucifer consoles, letting his knee bump against Sam’s leg, as if nudging Sam out of his morose thoughts. “Michael is not near his true vessel. While he is breaking seals across the country, he is weak. I can guarantee you that he is constantly tearing from the seams, the result of being in the Cage, seeking out seals, being disconnected from Heaven, and not establishing a connection with his true vessel. Michael might be incredibly easy to subdue in this state,” Lucifer explains. That does serve to ease the heavy weight of dread off of Sam’s shoulders, humming at the new information presented to him. 

“Plus,” Lucifer adds, “Abaddon and Crowley is something I can handle — ”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, the blond’s brows furrowing in confusion. Sam doesn’t like the idea of Lucifer going off on his own to take care of Abaddon, Crowley, or any of the other problems on their list. “No, this is something we can handle.”

Lucifer’s lips quirk into a small smile, nodding in agreement, “Yes, they are something we can handle. Let’s just take it one step at a time.”

Sam nods, staring down at their hands. They remain put like this, the room comfortably warm as the morning frost still clings onto the corners of the window. There is something like guilt sitting in his throat at the idea of pushing forward without Dean. The hunter desperately wants resolution between the both of them, but he knows it’s fruitless to force an apology out of Dean. Dean has to give it on his own, but he still can’t fight that gnawing sensation of guilt. Sam wonders if Dean has even tried to call him, but he refuses to look for his phone. Not yet. Lucifer’s thumb lightly runs over one of his knuckles, stirring Sam out of his thoughts. 

“I was — ah — I have been meaning to tell you something for a while,” Sam heaves out, his eyes fixated on their hands. He wants to ask Lucifer if this is what it felt like when he and Michael had their disagreement. Did Lucifer feel just as conflicted as he did? So desperate for resolution that even he considered apologizing even though he was not to blame? Instead he clears his throat, brows pinching together as he forces another train of thought to take precedent. “You told me that you turning into a sparrow was something out of your control. You didn’t choose a sparrow,” Sam continues, Lucifer humming in agreement. “I’ve been doing some research after you told me that, just trying to understand, but I could never find the right time to tell you what I found.” 

Sam slowly slides away from Lucifer, catching the confusion in his face as he pulls away. “I just need to grab my phone. I have it saved on there,” Sam explains, moving through the room. Lucifer sits up on the bed, watching Sam with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. 

The Winchester finds his phone in his discarded jeans, feeling his heart sink when he fails to see a missed call or awaiting text message. He fiddles around with a few apps on his phone before he’s wandering back to the bed. 

“Here it is,” Sam mumbles before taking a deep breath, quickly glancing at Lucifer before reciting out loud the words on the screen, “‘Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.’” The hunter glances once more at the archangel, the blond tense and staring back at him. Sam’s not sure if he has gone amiss by deciding to bring this up. “I think what it’s trying to say is that your Father doesn’t forget His creation, even the littlest of birds,” he explains ardently, discarding his phone on the bed. His eyes are trained on Lucifer, trying to gauge his reactions. The archangel remains unreadable, eyes fixated on Sam’s chest. Sam misses the way Lucifer’s fingers slowly curl into themselves, forming tight fists.   “I…maybe I’m misinterpreting this, but I think the reason you’re a sparrow is because He doesn’t want you to think you’re forgotten. I…I know He’s been awful. I’m not saying anything He’s done to you is good,” Sam quickly backpedals, his fingers itching to find Lucifer’s, “but I…I think it’s saying that while His notice doesn’t mean it will lead to an end to your suffering, your suffering doesn’t mean He’s abandoned you. Maybe He doesn’t want you to think you’ve been forgotten. Maybe that’s why you end up being a sparrow when you’re at your weakest.”

The archangel is stiff and there is something haunted lurking in his gaze at Sam’s interpretation. Sam groans in dismay, Lucifer slowly averting his gaze elsewhere.

“Lucifer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you — I don’t even know why I even brought this up,” Sam quickly apologizes.

The archangel’s jaw is tight and he’s breathing, eyes closed as his face tightens in pain. Sam desperately wants to touch the blond, but he keeps his hands to himself, unsure if it’s wanted. So he squirms in distress as he watches the subtle shifts and changes in Lucifer, feeling his palms sweat. It takes a few minutes before Lucifer opens his eyes, the abnormal show of breathing coming to an end.

With his fixated on the motel window, Lucifer begins slowly, “It’s terrifying being down in the Cage by yourself.” His words tremble, and it reminds Sam of Lucifer perched on the mound of dirt years ago, shovel in hand and words vibrating with emotion as he shares with Sam his own pain. It terrifies Sam, feeling himself shake in turn. “I would kick and scream in anger in one instance and cry for my Father’s forgiveness in the next,” he admitted, adding with a broken chuckle, “I’m afraid I wasn’t always so resolutely firm in my beliefs when I first ended up in that cell. I would bargain with…well, the emptiness of my cell. Willing to renounce my act of freewill if it meant being able to go home — to just get out. I would only grow desperate and angry when my Father never showed up or showed me some sort of sign He has heard me. I’d wear myself out until I was nothing but a sparrow, Grace shredded thin by my own frustration. I was certain He was mocking me, but perhaps I was wrong all along.”

It’s an honest confession of weakness, and he can feel Lucifer’s shame at his past actions. The blond finally turns his gaze back to Sam, and his heart lurches at the sign of wetness in the archangel’s eyes. Sam mumbles the archangel’s name softly, not sure if he should comfort or keep his distance, but Lucifer quietly shakes his head in interjection.

“Part of me is upset, but not at you. I’m just…confused and relieved all at once. It’s comforting to know that no matter the distance, or how awful the fight, that you will never be forgotten. In the same vein, that doesn’t change how I feel about my Father,” Lucifer explains openly.

There is a strange silence that settles between them, making Sam fidget and squirm on the bed. Sam helplessly mumbles Lucifer’s name out again, scooting forward a bit. That pulls Lucifer out of his thoughts. He gives Sam an attentive look, eyeing the Winchester as if he’s looking at him for the first time.

There is a gentle shift in his demeanor, his tense posture beginning to relax and gaze turning soft. There is a warm realization washing over his features and it dissipates every crease on his forehead. “The point is, Sam, that whether this was always the case or not, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if my Father remembers me or not,” Lucifer concludes and that takes Sam by surprise, his brows pinching together. “You saw me and helped me even in my weakest moments. Even as a little bird, you valued me and allowed me to be a part of your life. That means more to me than whether or not my Father cares for me.”

It’s a daring proclamation, that he doesn’t need god’s favor and he will seek it no more. He wants to know Sam and Sam alone. Sam’s frozen by this, breath stuck in his throat, the two of them staring at the other. 

His neck feels warm with Lucifer’s words. He’s supposed to be busy thinking of his horrid exit out of the bunker and his spat with Dean. He’s supposed to be wracking his head over how to solve the growing mass of problems before him. Instead he’s comfortably warm and full in a little oasis made out of Grace, listening to the Morning Star admire him openly. Sam doesn’t know how to respond, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. 

With a soft sound, he closes the distance between them. Their knees bump and limbs tangle together as Sam maneuvers himself closer until he’s seated in-between the archangel’s legs. Lucifer offers him a warm smile, and Sam can’t help but pull the archangel into an embrace. Sam can feel the archangel carefully wrap his arms around him in turn. Lucifer smells of pine and the foreshadowing of winter, the source of the scent wafting throughout the motel room. He smells as if he has always lived amongst the trees and snow. Sam shudders against Lucifer, his skin chilled against Sam’s flushed cheek.

“Let’s keep on heading towards Flagstaff. It’ll give me some time to think on what to do next,” Sam heaves out once more. “You’ll still come with me?”

“I’ll come with you.” 

The embrace doesn’t last long before Sam pulls away. Lucifer’s hands respectfully return to settle on the comforter beneath him, staring curiously at the Winchester. But Sam can’t find it in him to let his hands part from Lucifer, his fingers gliding from the space on his back to his shoulders. They move up the blond’s neck and settle on his jaw, taking the time to admire the archangel before him. It’s hard to believe that just years ago he would be forcing himself to create distance between himself and Lucifer. It’s hard to believe that behind flesh and bones is an archangel who would put aside an old anger and craving for an absent Father and replace it with this. Sam doesn’t know what to call this. It’s new and familiar all at once, and his heart aggressively beat against his ribs whenever Lucifer stares at him as if he’s a birthing star. 

Sam’s simultaneously terrified and eager, feeling the heat on his neck spreading down his chest and up his chin. 

Lucifer’s eyes close when Sam’s fingers trace his cheekbones. Sam’s lips part slightly as he memorizes the curve of the underside of his eyes to the slant of his nose. His fingers smooth his brows and groom the unruly head of blond hair, Lucifer’s eyes remaining closed and his lips curve into a smile. Sam closes his own eyes, the features of Lucifer’s face becoming Braille to his fingertips. The blond chuckles when Sam’s fingers trace his jaw, fingertips scratched by the archangel’s stubble. 

“Memorizing me by heart, Sam?” he teases when he opens his eyes to find Sam’s closed. Sam wonders if Lucifer is vibrating with nervous anticipation just like him. 

Sam opens his eyes and snorts quietly at the archangel. “Yes,” he replies back unabashedly, and Lucifer’s smile falters, his mouth parting in surprise at the response. Sam takes a leap of faith before he can think against it. The hunter spontaneously leans forward and takes advantage of those parted lips, fingers pressing tightly into Lucifer’s jaw and lips finding his. It feels long overdue, and he can feel his skin break into goosebumps as warm meets cold. There is a wild current of energy being passed, the same sensation Sam felt when Grace and soul briefly melded in the bunker a month or so ago. It leaves Sam already gasping for air, pulling his mouth away in surprise. His lips tingle in the aftermath. 

There is the soft, wet silence of Sam catching his breath, and Lucifer’s fingers trace Sam’s ribcage over his shirt. Lucifer looks dazed and Sam can see the outline of his wings in the streaming sunlight. Sam only leans in once more when he has regained his breath, listening to the sweet little sounds trapped in the blond’s mouth. They stay put, drinking in each other’s presence, until the sun begins to descend and Sam’s lips go numb with the cold.

\---------------------------------------------

Dean’s knee bounces, staring at the empty room that once was occupied by his little brother. His anger was blinding the other day, his mouth hot with the froth of his dissent. Now he is left with surprise, hurt, and guilt. Sam was nowhere to be seen after the fight, and Dean was haunted by every foul word he issued out to his brother. He was surprised to find himself knocking on his brother’s door only for it to open at his touch. Sam’s bed is neatly made and any small mementos his brother had in his room are gone.

Sam’s gone and he can only imagine Lucifer is, too. 

He holds onto his cellphone, fingers curled around it tightly, but he makes no inclination of calling his brother. Dean only holds it, thoughts racing and already searching for some sort of reason why he shouldn’t care. That Sam’s absence will not faze him or that Sam leaving is nothing but a sign of betrayal. The hunter can’t find the strength to do so, finding himself staring numbly at his brother’s empty room. It’s easier to be angry and hostile, but the thought of twisting his brother in an ill light only serves to make him exhausted.

Castiel finds him during the afternoon, giving the room a look of concern when he notices how bare it now is. The angel walks about the room, staring curiously at the leftover contents, fingers brushing against the spines of old tomes. 

“I don’t know what to do, Cas,” Dean confesses lamely, his free hand rising and falling on his knee. 

The angel turns to fix Dean with a quiet look, sighing softly. “I would give your brother time and space to think before reaching out,” Castiel advises, already seeing the disappointment on Dean’s face at the suggestion. “Your brother deserves to have a moment to think — ”

“But he’s with Lucifer, Cas!” Dean protests in exasperation. Dean knows what the future entails when Sam goes off with Lucifer. He remembers Zachariah pulling him into a future where Sam leaves to seek sanctuary with Lucifer, giving a ‘yes’ to the big bad. A quiet voice in the back of his head inquires as to why he drove Sam out. That if he desperately wanted to prevent this apocalyptic future, why did he push Sam away? It leaves Dean befuddled and irritated, trying to sort through his thoughts and the gravity of his own actions. 

“Lucifer is not the problem here, Dean,” Castiel replies tersely, earning raised brows from the hunter. 

“Shit, Cas, tell me how you really feel,” he replies snidely, hackles rising in defense. 

The angel frowns at the brunette, carefully moving to sit on the bed. “Dean, when I was…human — or whatever you wish to call the state I was in after Metatron’s spell — I was faced with, and still face, my own mortality. It showed me that life is precious. It must be protected at all costs, even a life as pig-headed as a Winchester’s. Sometimes you have to make compromises to make sure that life is protected,” Castiel begins slowly, carefully forming his words.

Dean frowns in confusion, shaking his head slightly, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at here, Cas.” 

Castiel frowns in dismay at Dean, straightening up and trying to find another way how to explain himself. “What I’m trying to gather at is that making a compromise in regards to Lucifer is something you should consider. Trust your brother’s judgment, Dean. How are you supposed to work with your brother and preserve that relationship if you can’t even trust him? How can you expect him to stay?” he reiterates.

The hunter stares helplessly at Castiel, opening his mouth to protest only to close it uselessly. He sinks into the chair he’s in, trying to take in Castiel’s wisdom, only to find his thoughts cut off. His phone is buzzing in his hand, and he opens his palm to find the screen flashing sporadically. The numbers on the screen twitch and angrily transform into strange symbols. Brows pinched, he answers the call and holds it to his ear. 

“Who the hell is this?” Dean gruffly issues out into the phone. 

There is the sound of a tongue clicking in dismay. “Well that’s a rather charming way to greet a dear friend,” a voice issues out coolly. 

_Crowley._

Dean glances over to Castiel, the angel giving him another look of concern. The hunter holds his finger up in a sign for the conversation between them to pause. Quickly he rises to his feet and exits Sam’s room, making a beeline towards the bunker’s exit. He finds Linda Tran and Kevin in the main room, guilt sitting in the pit of his stomach as he examines Ms. Tran’s grotesque bruising and patched up wounds. Last time he checked Ms. Tran was confined to bed due to the grievous injuries Crowley inflicted on her. 

Crowley is humming in his ear, quite aware Dean is moving elsewhere so he can speak privately with him. 

“What the hell do you want, Crowley?” Dean rushes out in anger.

The demon is unfazed by Dean’s tone of voice. “Well I thought I’d check up on you and let you know that I have something you want.”

“What could you possibly have that I want?” Dean hisses. 

Crowley makes a sound in mock surprise, “Did you already forget our riveting farewell chat? The one where I graciously offered to find the First Blade for you? Then you rudely carried on about gutting me afterwards? Ring a bell? Well, I wanted to inform you that I found it. I know where the First Blade is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God sees the little sparrow fall,  
> It meets His tender view;  
> If God so loves the little birds,  
> I know He loves me, too.
> 
> He loves me, too, He loves me, too,  
> I know He loves me, too;  
> Because He loves the little things,  
> I know He loves me, too.
> 
> He paints the lily of the field,  
> Perfumes each lily bell;  
> If He so loves the little flow’rs,  
> I know He loves me well.
> 
> God made the little birds and flow’rs,  
> And all things large and small;  
> He’ll not forget his little ones,  
> I know He loves them all.
> 
>  
> 
> **_“God Sees The Little Sparrow Fall”_ \- Maria Straub**


	20. Genesis 4:10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has left the bunker with Lucifer after their falling out. Dean continues to pursue the First Blade and finally finds it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My deepest apologies for the huge lapse in time on an update. I was finishing up my master thesis. It's finished and gold! Now I have time for Little Birds! Thank you, again, to everyone who has stuck it out with me!

The Mark of Cain is different. It sits wrong on Dean, the welt of a mark stretched over his skin in differing shades of red. It’s crawling up his right arm, disappearing underneath the sleeve of his shirt to only reappear around the base of his neck. It’s a thick collar of red that is begging to claim unmarked flesh. 

Heat pours out of Dean in waves, sweltering and causing the air about him to expand, heat and light bending together until the world shimmers altogether. Sam can feel the sweat forming on his brows as he finds himself paralyzed, staring at his brother who is rounding in on something small on the ground. His right arm is throbbing, a dull pain that is calling for his attention, but Sam finds himself unable to turn his head to look at his arm.

It takes only a sound — a warning shrill — to know what Dean is vying for. Sam desperately tries to move, but his body is immobilized and even calling for his sibling falls on deaf ears. Dean is twisting his body, moving in a different direction and Sam catches the flash of brown hopping across the ground. A sparrow moves frantically away, right wing dragging across the floor.

“Lucifer,” he calls out, willing his body to move and act as a safe haven, but he remains a helpless spectator. 

Dean’s movements are fluid and precise, his face a mask of pure intent, watching the little bird evade him. With one quick move, a boot is stepping on the damaged wing, the bird shrieking in pain. Sam cries out when he feels something sharp dig into his right elbow, muscles twitching and aching at the phantom pain. Sam watches his brother slowly bend down, fingers curling around the little bird, leaving only the sparrow’s head poking out. The sparrow is desperately poking at the fingers keeping it prisoner, breaking skin. Dean doesn’t flinch or hiss in pain as red begins to drip down his fist. Instead he gives a forlorn sigh, issuing out in disappointment, “Enough, brother.” 

The sparrow begins to scream, fist tightening around its tiny frame, and Sam is screaming along with it. Awful noises rip through his eardrums, the room filled with panic and pain. Sam is begging Dean to stop through choked sobs, but his words never seem to come to fruition, an invisible force continuing to shove his pleas further down his throat. He gags on his own fear, struggling to breathe. Sam’s vision begins to swim, turning pitch black around the edges and his chest is aching — demanding oxygen. 

It suddenly stops. The screaming silenced.

The little bird is still and quiet in Dean’s fist. Light drips out of the sparrow’s sockets in thick sludges, darkening into something akin to tar as it splatters on the floor. His own eyes feel wet. Sam thrashes against whatever is keeping him put, crying out to the mutilated body being unceremoniously dropped on the ground. He calls out to the still body and Dean suddenly turns on him, brows pinched together. His presence is finally noticed.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The world drops from underneath him and Sam Winchester falls.

\---------------------------------------------

The youngest Winchester jerks in bed, gasping for air, fingers touching his throat. It’s a relief he can breathe, but his body struggles to adjust, his limbs numb and slow. He’s shrouded in darkness and for a moment he believes himself to be blind. There is a soft sound in panic and something stirs next to him.

There is the sound of a bulb humming and there is light, a broken sound leaving his mouth at the sight of a familiar bedroom. A head of blond hair pops into his line of sight, chilled fingers on his forehead, a concerned sound pushing through the soundtrack of Sam’s heavy panting. 

“Sam? Sam, are you okay?” 

Sam only reaches out, gripping a familiar arm that’s nearly chilled to the bone. He feels whole and real, his hands shakily move to run across the archangel’s frame, confirming he’s unharmed. It’s only when he’s satisfied with his findings does he sink back into the bed, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Bad dream,” Sam mumbled, Lucifer taking it as a sign he can move in closer, pushing a cold nose into the side of his heated neck. It’s a soothing balm against his feverish skin, giving a soft sound in approval. 

“Felt so real,” the hunter adds after a moment of silence, trying to still the frantic beating of his heart. Sam doesn’t know how to explain to himself how tangible and terrifying solid the dream felt. He stares blearily at the ceiling, trying to make sense out of this. 

It’s been nearly a week since his departure from the bunker and they have made it to Flagstaff. The air is crisp and it feels…safe. They have nestled themselves into a cabin, its occupants nowhere to be seen. Sam guesses it’s a cabin strictly for the holidays and off seasons, only spying canned food in the kitchen and dust. Lucifer is a welcoming comfort, always willing to accommodate and make this place livable and safe. While Lucifer won’t admit it, Sam knows Lucifer has been using his Grace to shift and change the cabin to Sam’s liking. His favorite books to his favorite brand of coffee mysteriously find their way into the cabin, Lucifer evading ownership. 

They slowly ease into each other and with this newfound privacy, they carefully explore being intimate with the other. They kiss infrequently and it’s always slow and chaste. It still bewilders Sam that he is kissing the Morning Star. He’s kissing something made out of light and all of the hidden unknowns within the universe. Sam supposes Lucifer feels the same way on being intimate with a human. 

Sam finds out that Lucifer is rather fond of slipping his fingers through Sam’s. The gesture is new and the archangel enjoys how simple, but affectionate it is. Lucifer finds out that Sam likes curling himself up against him in sleep, Sam’s frame spooning his. It’s a pleasant learning experience for them both and it makes being away from Dean and the others a little more bearable. 

He misses his brother dearly, but he just can’t imagine continuing to live with him. Not now…maybe not ever. It still is surreal to think their relationship has fallen so low. They have shared piss-poor moments before, but this feels…definitive. Final. The end. It terrifies Sam to think that this may truly be it for the Winchesters, but what can he do if Dean refuses to meet him halfway?

The dream with Dean violently crushing Lucifer has done nothing to ease his nerves, mortified by the images. Sam knows it’s not his brother, but this feels like a warning. It feels as if someone is screaming for his attention and he’s not sure what to make of it.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” a voice murmurs against his neck. Sam gives a tired chuckle, his sweaty palm finding one of Lucifer’s hand.

“Isn’t that my line?” The Winchester’s half-hearted smile dampens and he carefully removes himself from the archangel. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he gives a heavy sigh, staring at the wild-haired archangel next to him. “Not sure if I want to talk about it,” Sam admits to himself, “At least not yet. Not sure what to make out of it, to be honest.” 

Lucifer makes a sound in understanding and sits up himself. “Coffee?” he offers and Sam nods. He watches the archangel slip from underneath the covers and shuffle over in the direction of the kitchen, movements strangely human and disarming. 

“Don’t forget to measure out the water,” Sam calls out and he earns a grunt in return. He listens to the faraway sound of cups clinking together before returning to his thoughts. The Mark of Cain was overwhelming on Dean and it looked as if it could spread. Last time Sam saw the Mark it was small and constrained. Could it grow? Then there was Lucifer with his wing broken and in the form of a sparrow. That was all wrong. As long as Lucifer doesn’t overexert himself and is in his company, he shouldn’t need to resort to such a form. Plus, his wings were healed… 

The hunter rubs at his forehead, feeling a migraine beginning to creep centerstage. The dream was short and vivid. It was painful, too. A familiar sort of pain. 

Sam pulls himself out of bed, a sickening feeling beginning to curl in his gut as he moves towards the kitchen. He finds Lucifer staring determinedly at the coffee pot, listening to the water heat up within. “Lucifer,” Sam begins, taking a seat at the tiny breakfast table in the corner. The seat is far too cold for his liking. “When…hmm, not sure how to say this. Hm. How did Azazel know who was…special? I understand why he bothered with me, but with the other children? I guess I’m trying to ask if it’s Azazel’s blood that make them special or something else…” he asks, still unsure of how to word the question he truly wants to ask. 

Lucifer turns away from the coffeepot, folding his arms across his chest, rather surprised by the question, “Azazel’s special children? I was not privy to those machinations, but they were always special. There was already something deep within their genetic coding that was bound for greatness. Azazel’s blood is nothing but an amplifier. Something to…encourage the growth of already innate abilities.” 

Sam gives a hum in thought, processing the information. He vaguely recalls Ruby telling him he never needed the blood. That everything he was able to perform was dependent on himself and his choices. “But I…I don’t have my ‘gifts’ anymore. I can’t exorcise a demon at will or…” Sam begins and the archangel shakes his head. 

“You can, Sam. You always will be able to. Think of your abilities as a set of muscles within your body. If you continue to exercise and utilize these muscles, it will grow stronger. If you keep these muscles dormant, the talent itself will become dormant.”

Sam works his jaw in thought, knee bouncing underneath the table. “What about being able to get glimpses of the future?” he asks quietly. That was a gift that all but disappeared after the showdown with Azazel’s other special children. Sam couldn’t say he missed the gift, but he can’t help but wonder if maybe this dream is something else entirely. He dreamt of Jess dying hundreds of times before it actually occurred, and he hated himself for failing to act upon it. It was always short and vivid, the beginning and aftermath of the vision nonexistent.

“The same concept. If you close yourself up to the possibility and fail to…utilize these abilities, it will remain dormant,” Lucifer replies, brows pinching together, his interest already piqued. “Why do you ask?” 

The hunter heaves out a sigh and shakes his head, still unsure himself. “I just… I don’t know, I guess I was under the impression that it was all a one-time deal. I can’t stop thinking that this dream of mine is something else. All I can hear in my head is Ruby telling me that I…that it was always my choices that led to having these abilities. That I…” Sam takes a breath, feeling his words run together, “that I…kept on choosing ‘the right path every time.’ Maybe…maybe me being here and away from Dean isn’t the right path. Maybe for me, but what about Dean?”

Lucifer is silent, expression unreadable and body still. It takes a moment before he’s moving, blinking once, “What was the dream?”

“I…Dean was trying to catch you, but you were a sparrow, again. Your wing was injured and he was trying to grab at you. The Mark of Cain had spread across his arm and up towards his neck. I…I was there, but I couldn’t do anything. Then he grabbed you and…” Sam explains, moving his hand to dig into one of his temples, feeling a sharp spike of pain. “I don’t know what to make out from it. I don’t know if this is some sort of vision or just a dream. I haven’t….received any sort of visions in years, Luce. To have one now? I don’t know, but I just can’t…something feels off.” 

The archangel turns to grab the coffeepot, pouring the steaming coffee into a nearby mug. He moves over to the fridge to grab the creamer and Sam is nearly fidgeting in his seat with impatience, desperate to hear Lucifer’s thoughts on the matter. 

“Luce,” he huffs out pleadingly. 

The blond sighs, “I am a veteran in having poor relations with my siblings, Sam. I’m not too sure my advice will benefit you, but maybe you should call him. Ask how he’s doing.” Sam balks at the response, just as surprised as Lucifer is at his own response. “As for the Mark of Cain spreading, that is something I haven’t witnessed. Then again, the Mark of Cain may be different on Dean than on Cain.”

“What do you mean?” 

Lucifer moves over to hand Sam his coffee, settling down in the chair next to the Winchester. “When Cain received the Mark, he was already damned. It was given after he killed Abel, his soul already bound to Hell. Dean’s soul is very much his own and Hell does not own him,” the archangel explains. 

“But…he has the Mark. Isn’t he a part of Hell?” Sam questions, taking a sip of his coffee. He hums in approval, a flicker of a smile settling on the blond’s lips. 

“No. He’s not a part of Hell. The Mark of Cain is…a separate concept, but it, too, can be shaped by the wearer’s choices.”

Sam groans and leans back into his chair. “I don’t know what to do. Dean…he’s so driven on the easiest route in killing Abaddon and everything else, that I’m afraid he’s going to be reckless. He’s going to try to take on everything at once and…” the hunter explains, before adding quietly, “I’m also afraid that if what I saw is true, what happens if we move back into the bunker? What if you do get hurt because we came back?” 

Lucifer chuckles gently and shakes his head, a cold foot nudging at his shin, “Don’t worry about me. I’m safe when I’m with you, Sam.” The archangel moves one of his hands onto the table, palm turned up towards Sam expectantly. 

“You…” Sam begins, feeling his cheeks flush with heat, trying to fight back the smile spreading on his lips, “Flattery will get you anywhere, huh?” Lucifer only smirks and Sam caves in, offering his hand. The archangel instantly lets his fingers slide through his, a soft sound of approval rumbling in the entity’s chest. “I’ll give him a call and see how things are going. As much as I’d like to just keep my head buried in the sand, we should begin to figure out what we can do on our end. Maybe we can prevent Dean trying to take everything by himself by lessening the load,” Sam adds, Lucifer nodding in agreement.

Sam lets his thumb run over the side of Lucifer’s hand, adding after a moment of silence, “I suggest we try to figure out how to get into Heaven.” 

Lucifer squeezes Sam’s hand in affection, “Holding hands with the Devil is already a poor start.”

\---------------------------------------------

Sam’s absence in the bunker is immediately noticed by its occupants. Kevin is all open heat and fury when he isn’t given a straight answer as to why Sam is gone — hell, why Lucifer is gone. Even with Ms. Tran in the mix, in far better health, does Dean continue to remain elusive on the matter.

“Sam and Lucifer are gone. They chose to leave. I’m not going to force them back here. If you want to know why they left, feel free to find out yourself. If not, then shut up and fall back in line,” he barks out over breakfast, flashing his teeth and feeling a snarl curl deep in his gullet in anticipation. He sounds like his father, Dean reflects through the flare of his words. 

Ms. Tran eyes him with disappointment and its a punch that knocks the heat out of his belly. Dean averts his gaze, glowering at his bowl of cereal until the two leave.

Everything is fucking wrong. This isn’t how he envisioned their journey on taking down Hell and Heaven’s finest. Dean scratches violently at his scalp before dropping his hand in exasperation on the table, fuming at his surroundings. The only thing propelling him forward is obtaining the First Blade then ganking Abaddon. If he has a goal — a focal point — can he force himself to ignore his brother’s absence and the sentiments towards him by his colleagues. He doesn’t need their friendship, he needs them to pull their weight and pitch in what they can.

With breakfast uneaten and coffee untouched, he made his way to the Impala. Gear already packed, he’s caught by surprise when he sees someone else is occupying the Impala. 

Castiel is settled in the passenger seat, window rolled down, lips forming a determined line. The Winchester’s lips quirk into a smile at the sight of the angel in the passenger seat, watching his fingers smooth down a wrinkle on his slacks. Dean lets his hand thump on the roof of the car to announce his presence, the angel twisting in his seat towards him. “Going somewhere?” Dean asks, the dark-haired angel’s brows pinching together at Dean’s feigned ignorance. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Castiel replies before shifting back in his seat, staring ahead of him resolutely, “I’m not sure as to where you are going and what you are intending to do, but I am going with you.” 

Dean stares quietly at the side of Cas’ head, features softening for a moment. Feeling grateful is an understatement, Dean’s disgustingly relieved that there will be someone to accompany him on this journey. With a nod that goes unseen, he moves around the Impala and slides into the driver’s seat. His fingers pull the keys out of his pocket, pausing before sliding the keys into the ignition. 

“Crowley found the location of the First Blade and I’m heading over to grab it,” Dean informs, glancing at Castiel to gauge his expression. The angel only gives a nod. “Means we have to play ball with Crowley for a bit. Think you can play nice with him?” he adds, a small part of him almost ravenous for a call of protest or the comings on of a heated debate as to why this is stupid. Dean won’t admit it but he’s waiting for something familiar, something that Sam would do. 

Castiel only sighs and twists in his seat, something akin to indignation settling on his face. “I’m not here for the First Blade, Dean, I’m here for you,” he issues out with finality before shifting back in his seat. It wasn’t quite the answer Dean was expecting, but it pulls a real smile on his lips.

Dean is more than grateful for Castiel’s presence, especially after four days of hunting for a name. Crowley’s information was riddled with potholes and Dean found himself forced to call Kevin to help him rummage through the Men of Letter’s old files. Kevin hung on him four times, the Winchester’s temper turning foul, struggling to keep his words polite and concise. It takes Castiel on the phone to convince Kevin to lend a hand.

“Apparently the Men of Letters utilize the name ‘Magnus’ when incognito,” Castiel relayed, phone tucked against his ear. 

Dean huffs in exasperation, shoulders rising and falling, “So? Everyone we know of that belonged to the Men of Letters are dead.” Castiel only stares back at Dean, earning a heavy sigh from the Winchester. “Everyone ended up deader than dead thanks to Abaddon. Hell, even that one blind guy Sam met and learned about the bunker from — shit, what was his name — Larry something? Anyways, even he got the knife thanks to Abaddon.” 

Someone clears their throat delicately, “It hurts me when you two refuse to listen to my words of wisdom.” Dean shoots a scalding look to Crowley who is trying to make himself comfortable in one of the armchairs in the motel.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t fucking complain all the time, would I actually bother to listen,” the brunette snaps in quick rebuttal. Crowley is only amused, lips curling. 

“Infamati et obiterati,” the King of Hell issues out simply. Dean frowns and shakes his head in confusion. “It means ‘dishonored and forgotten.’” 

“I know what it means,” Dean snarls, “I just don’t see where you’re going with this.”

Crowley raises his hand in a mock show of surrender, “My apologies, my angry prince. Perhaps it would behoove you to look at the members who have…being dishonorable discharged from the Men of Letters. Someone may have missed out on Abaddon’s engagement with the Men of Letters.” Dean works his jaw before making a motion to Castiel to relay the information to Kevin. 

This would be easier if Sam was here. Everything would be easier with Sam here, Dean corrects. He knows he should call Sam. Knows he should shoot his little brother a text, but pride rears its ugly head out and refuses to cave in. In a moment of fury he had Sam’s phone number blocked, tempted to fetch a new phone number — to complete break ties. Dean tells himself the only thing holding him back is the effort it’ll take him to inform his other contacts of his new contact information.

A part of him is already regretting his actions. Maybe he could add Sam’s number back in. He knows he has it written down somewhere or printed on one of the fake business cards they keep about. Dean debates with himself on the issue until Castiel is relaying new information. They’re looking for a Cuthbert Sinclair, an ex-member of the Men of Letters.

\---------------------------------------------

It takes shouting his name out into an empty clearing to find Magnus’ hiding place, the King of Hell snickering next to the Impala. “If you yell out how you’re a ‘legacy’ louder, I’m sure someone will believe it,” Crowley chimes in between Dean’s shouting. Dean ignores him, continuing to shout his name and his grandfather’s name. Maybe this Magnus fellow knew Henry? This is also suggesting that whoever this is is actually listening.

Dean is silenced when the ground trembles, a sickly yellow light clawing and tearing apart the space before him. Cas is instantly by his side, face grim, as they both watch the light peel back the atmosphere. The smell of ozone hits them both hard and there is a space between them that is warped, air howling about it. It makes Dean think of the opening to The Cage and he glances at Cas for aid. The angel gives a nod in support.

“I think he wishes for us to come in,” Castiel shouts over the noise. Dean turns to Crowley, but the King of Hell is shaking his head.

“Like bloody Hell am I going in there. Men of Letters kill demons, remember? I’ll guard the car.” Dean doesn’t bother protesting, pleased the demon is deciding to stay. Nodding at Castiel, the two of them walk forward. 

There is a sudden sickening drop in his stomach, nearly falling face-forward into a hallway. The smell of ozone is overwhelming, but Dean is too captivated by his surroundings to complain. Ornate paintings are mounted on rich-colored walls, relics of a time lost standing on pedestals or resting on tables. There is the soft croon of voices somewhere faraway, words unintelligible. A soft sound of awe is trapped in Dean’s throat, gravitating towards the items.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had any visitors,” a voice calls out from their left, pulling Dean and Castiel closer to the source of the voice. Dean can’t help but let his eyes wander, staring at the mounted blades from a time far beyond him. A lopsided grin curls on his face as he drinks it in, earning an approving chuckle. 

“Enjoy what you see?” the same voice inquires, the hunter turning his head to find a middle-aged man rising from an armchair. Just an inch or so shorter, the man still carries a mighty presence in a three-piece suit and neatly combed brown hair. Dean gives an approving sound, a bit tickled by the bow fasted neatly on the man’s neck. The man looks as if he hasn’t left the decade he raced out of. Dark eyes give Dean an appraising once-over before he’s mirroring Dean’s grin, letting his arms extend in a welcoming gesture, “Welcome to my humble abode. Please, take a seat.”

The two move over towards the couch, taking a seat. The Winchester scratches at his jaw idly, wiggling on the couch and trying to make himself comfortable, “So, what, are we underground?”

The man shakes his head, his arms dropping to his sides, carefully moving across the room, “No. No, my fortress is right where you were standing. But it’s invisible. This is where I keep all of my collections.”

Dean mutters something along lines of ‘that’s pretty cool’ as Castiel clears his throat, “Then you must be Cuthbert Sinclair.”

The man fastens his gaze onto Castiel, head tilting curiously to the side, grin becoming a thin-lipped smile. “Ugh,” he suddenly is bemoaning, “I haven’t gone by that moniker in, oh…fifty-seven years now?” Magnus pulls his hands behind his back, humming curiously, “Ah, and you are another Men of Letter?” 

Dean shakes his head, immediately intervening, “Oh, no, this is my partner, Cas. He’s…a hunter like me.” 

“A hunter? Interesting,” Magnus comments. 

Dean fidgets at the silence, blurting out, “You’re looking good for guy pushing…what, ninety?” 

That successfully pulls Magnus’ attention away from Castiel, smiling brightly, “You flatter me. There’s a spell for damn near everything. I am impressed, though. You managed to find me. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me as to how…”

Dean shakes his head, giving an apologetic smile, “Afraid not. Let’s just say it was a real bitch trying to do so.” Magnus gives an understanding nod. “Listen, Magnus, uh... We got ourselves a little situation. Abaddon, the last Knight of Hell, is looking to up her pay grade and take over the place.”

Magnus snorts in amusement, lips pulled into a wide grin, “Abaddon? Turned her back against Lucifer and is vying for the throne? For once, I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Uh…yeah, sure. Look, we need something called the First Blade to stop her, something that we hear you have,” Dean continues on. 

Magnus nods and settles down in the nearest armchair, folding his hands over his lap, smiling pleasantly, “Interesting. But if you’d really done your homework, you would know that it’s useless, unless, of course, you’re possessing the Mark — ”

Dean already is pulling his right sleeve up to reveal the Mark, “— the Mark of Cain. I know.”

The pleasant smile falters, eyeing the Mark quietly, “How did you come by that?” 

Dean ignores Mangus’ question, plowing through eagerly, “Look, if Abaddon takes over, the one thing she wants more than anything is make hell on earth. Not even you can escape that.”

Castiel gives a worrying sound, dipping his head and muttering Dean’s name out. Dean ignores him, staring intently at Magnus. The collector nods and points at something behind Dean. Twisting in his seat, he spies what looks like an animal’s jaw on display. 

_That must be it._

Instantly the Mark aches when he lays eyes on it, wincing at the sudden burst of pain. He digs his fingers into the welt of a mark, forcing his gaze away from the blade. He makes a motion towards the mounted blade, “Listen, if you’re serious about taking action, this — this is taking action. You loan us that Blade, and we will stop that bitch.” 

Magnus gives a hum in thought, brows pinched together, “First thing is first…” Raising his hand, the older gentleman snaps his fingers and Castiel vanishes. Dean’s stunned, staring in horror at the empty spot next to him. He’s instantly on his feet, watching Magnus slowly rise to his.

“W-what did you do? How the hell did you do that?” he immediately is crying out, warily turning his gaze back to Magnus. The man simply snapped his fingers and Castiel was gone. Yes, the file on Cuthbert stated he was an expert in spells, but that wasn’t a spell. Dean stiffens in realization, asking lowly, “Where is the hell is Cas? I swear to God, if you —” 

Magnus waves a hand in dismissal, taking a step forward,“Don’t worry, he’s fine. I did what any good collector would do — I separated the ordinary from the extraordinary. I have the First Blade, and now I have the Mark of Cain to complete the set.” Dean takes a step back as Magnus slowly advances towards him, back hitting the wall. 

“Yeah, well, problem is, it’s attached,” Dean replies, eyes frantically looking for escape routes, trying to stall the inevitable fight. “So how about you loan me the Blade and I take care of business? Plus, my friend is going to be back pretty soon. I rather this not get ugly…” 

Magnus snorts in humor, retorting darkly, “Please, that angel couldn’t lift himself a foot off the ground without combusting from the inside.” Dean blanches at the comment. Whatever Magnus is, he was able to see Castiel was an angel. 

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Think, Dean. Think._

Magnus instantly gives an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry, that came off rather rude. Dean, I am offering you the moon here — to be part of the greatest collection of all time.” Dean makes a motion to move, to create some sort of space between them, but the older gentleman is suddenly before him. The pads of his fingers push against Dean’s chest, keeping him pinned against the wall, “To be forever young, Dean. Let me teach you my secrets. Hmm?” The older male is looking at him for some sort of sign of temptation or awe at the offer, but Dean can only feel his gut churn in dread. 

The fingers pushing against his chest flatten, palm soon resting against him. Dean represses a shudder as he feels the palm move up, resting against the side of his neck. “Be my companion. I have to be honest with you,” Magnus admits, eyes fixated on Dean’s neck, “It has gotten lonely here over the years.” 

Panicking, he rams his skull against Magnus’, ripping himself away from his pinned position. His shoulder socket smarts at the uncoordinated movement, stumbling away, forehead throbbing. His hand moves to his weapon, but it’s gone. Everything on his belt and pockets are gone. What the fuck?! His forehead is screaming in pain as he gropes for something — anything — to protect himself. His fingers curl around the handle of a blade mounted on the wall closest to him, twisting around so he’s facing Magnus. He was hoping for the man to be reeling with pain, but instead he’s curiously touching his own forehead. 

“Did…” Dean gulps for air, “When you were saying any of that, did it feel at all creepy?” Magnus only smiles and carefully begins to approach Dean once more. Dean is quick to keep space between them, struggling to move through the cluttered room. His eyes glance towards the mounted First Blade. If he could manage to get towards it, he’d have a better chance of getting rid of whatever the hell is before him. “So what the hell are you exactly? You’re not human,” Dean breaks the silence, feeling sweat slide into his eye. He angrily wipes at his eye with his forearm. 

“Cuthbert is a pretty sad fucking name,” he adds, earning a chuckle from Magnus. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” the man agrees, pausing in his movement to carefully remove his suit jacket. “I’ve been called many names, but it seems fitting I should give you my true name. _We will_ be spending quite some time together.” Magnus lays his suit jacket on top of an armchair, his fingers moving to unfasten the vest. “You may call me _Belial_ ,” he inclines his head with a smile, laying his vest on top of the disposed suit jacket. 

Dean grinds his teeth in dismay, cursing under his breath, “So you’re nothing but a demon.” 

That earns a dark sound from Belial, pleasant demeanor instantly turning foul. “I am no demon. I am a collector, Dean Winchester. I have collected the remains of my brothers and sisters who fell with Lucifer. I have collected — and continue to collect — items from lost civilizations. In Heaven, I was once part of the Divine, once a collector of hymns and my Father’s scriptures. In Hell, it was souls,” he boasts, fingers rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, “I am a Knight of Hell, considered a prince among my peers.” 

Bellial takes a breath, straightening his posture, continuing on an amicable note, “I was content to simply collect and keep to myself after Lucifer fell once more in The Cage, but then in comes a new addition to my collection: you.” 

“Oh, you’re a really sorry piece of work,” Dean sputters out, praying for Castiel to make some miraculous appearance. He doesn’t want to stay in this house of horrors any longer. How the hell is he supposed to go up against someone like Belial without the Blade? Would it work on a fallen angel? No, it has to. If it will cut Abaddon down, it can surely cut Belial down. “You know that?” Dean continues, feeling fear begin to make him stupid, “Holed up in here, doing nothing. No wonder why Abaddon is clearly Lucifer’s favorite. Hell, no wonder why Lucifer trusted Azazel with breaking the seals. Didn’t see your handiwork anywhere — ”

“I helped. I labored for him. I remained loyal as he continued to rot down below,” Belial hisses and Dean has no clue where he’s going with this. Doesn’t quite understand why pissing off a fallen angel is going to somehow help him, but he can’t help himself. He’s terrified and the only thing that can possibly save him is behind a fallen angel. 

The fallen angel opens his mouth to continue, baring his teeth, but he stops himself midway. He moves a hand to recompose himself, smoothing down his hair, before he’s moving towards the First Blade. “You know, we can play with each other all we wish, but let’s get down brass tacks. You’re here for the First Blade and I’m here to see the two come together,” he begins on a different note, voice rising in volume. 

He plucks the Blade from its perch and offers it, “Should we fire it up? What do you say?” 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Dean snaps back. There’s no way Belial would simply hand it to him. It has to be a trap. Something has to be wrong. 

Belial laughs, the notes raw and wrong, irritating Dean’s eardrums. “Oh come on, Dean,” the fallen angel implores, “This is the object of your quest. Tell me Henry Winchester’s grandson isn’t curious to see if it works. Now give me your hand.” 

Dean refuses to move, keeping the hand holding the stolen blade up. Belial frowns and flicks his fingers, Dean howling in pain when the weapon in his hand grows hot. He drops it, the heated metal clambering on the floor. Turning his gaze back up to Belial to keep him in his sights, he finds the Knight of Hell before him, hand roughly grabbing his right wrist. With a sharp twist, Dean’s sinking on his knees, crying out in pain. 

“I said…” Belial informs softly, “give me your hand.” 

Tears are blurring his vision, shouting out profanities as he can feel his hand being pried open. Something is being shoved into his hand, closing his fingers around it and it burns. The Mark of Cain is suddenly alive, screeching through his blood and he can feel his bones hum. He can see everything. Every moment where he was violent. Every moment painted red and he’s drowning in blood, the horror of the actions being met with…pleasure? It makes Dean sick, feeling bile rise through his throat, tearing him away from these blood-soaked memories. 

Dean vomits blood on Belial’s shoes and the Knight of Hell is grinning, uncaring of the mess. The Mark of Cain is a vivd red, all the veins underneath his skin bulging, feeling his blood throb underneath his skin. He wishes he could make his hand stop shaking —that fucking humming of his bones to stop. He can feel another onset of nausea rising through and he manages to release the blade, turning his head to heave blood once more. 

“That’s it,” Magnus coos, reaching down to push his fingers through Dean’s hair, holding on tightly when Dean tries to move away. “You’ll get used to the feelings, even welcome them,” he promises, his other hand grabbing the discarded blade. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”


	21. How Did I Get Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate times call for desperate measures. Dean finishes up grabbing the First Blade while Sam begins to reconsider being so far away from his brother...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to callmedesdinova for being my beta and making sure this chapter knocked it out of the park! Thank you for your gruesome, but amazing, ideas!

Dean vomits again onto the decorative rug beneath them. Having the First Blade shoved once more in his hand has his stomach lining peeling off— a violent deep cleanse. The blood feels thick in his throat, and he spits what he can out. 

The Mark on his arm continues to surge with heat, charring his veins. Yet, underneath, is that intoxicating lull of strength that his bones are soaking in. Dean’s surprised by how easy he can focus on that sensation, the pain beginning to grow dull. He knows he shouldn’t — knows that whatever this is is wrong and needs to be avoided. He swallows down a sob and lets his head hang, trying to hide how embarrassed he is that he’s digging deeper into that intoxicating push. 

Magnus — no, that fucking fallen angel Belial — is crooning and continuing on how they’ll make a fine pair. He hates the way the man’s fingers reach towards him, pushing into his jaw and forcing his gaze upward. 

“You’ll come to understand, Dean, that nothing can stop us,” the older entity informs him matter-of-factly. 

Dean wishes he could raise his arm. The Blade feels heavy and his stomach gives a discomforting flip whenever his attention is diverted from that lull… 

_Come on, Cas. Could use some heavenly intervention right about now._

 “Anything — anyone we want to own or destroy is ours,” Belial is continuing on, and Dean snorts in disbelief. He can’t hide the curl of disgust and terror that is sitting on his lips, however. He doesn’t quite like how confidant Belial is that he’ll get him to do whatever he wishes. Doesn’t quite like the way this Knight of Hell’s fingers remain on his jaw, possessive and sharp. 

“Well,” Dean pulls his head away, relieved when the Knight of Hell’s fingers simply fall to his side, “how about this, Belial…or whatever the hell you want to be called. What if I just opt out of this little adventure of yours? Take a knee? Then what are you going to do, huh?” 

Belial’s brows pinch together, head cocked to the right in curiosity. Dean hates the way it makes him think of Cas — shit, where the hell is the angel anyways? “You gonna kill me? ‘Cause without this thing on my arm, that Blade’s nothing but a hunk of bone and teeth,” he finishes, not too sure where he’s going with this, but if it keeps the creep’s hands off of him or just ends his life sooner than later, so be it. 

He prays, again, for Cas, begging the angel to make an appearance. 

“Just like you,” the Knight of Hell returns with a smile, “nothing but a hunk of bone with teeth. Fitting, but I’m not asking you for your cooperation. I’m just taking it.” 

Fingers are suddenly fisting into his hair, and he violently pulls his head back, trying to jerk out of the hold. The dark-haired male doesn’t relent, instead yanking Dean onto his feet by his hair. Dean rises to his feet, hissing the entire way, the Blade still feeling like deadweight in his hand. The Winchester swings with his left, earning a harsh bark of laughter from the Knight of Hell. He doesn’t know why he can’t move his right arm. He bares his teeth, snarling when Belial’s other hand reaches out to force his jaw open, fingers shoving themselves in-between his teeth. Dean tries to bite down, only leading to his jaw aching in pain when Belial simply pries his jaw apart.

Eyes flash black before him, the Knight of Hell’s smile splitting open. Black smoke trickles out, drifting towards the Winchester. The Winchester thrashes against his hold when he realizes what will come next, screaming for his arm to move — _where the hell is Cas?!_

The black smoke hovers in front of his pried open mouth before returning to Belial. The Knight of Hell’s face is twisted in confusion, “Ah, interesting. Now you wouldn’t happen to have an anti-possession charm on you, hmm?” Dean glares, still struggling to remove himself from Belial’s hold. The Knight of Hell gives a smile, releasing Dean’s jaw. The moment of freedom isn’t squandered, the Winchester immediately trying to create distance between them, but Belial doesn’t allow it. A hot hand holds onto his shoulder, keeping in place, as another hand intrusively begins to pat him down. 

“Get the fuck off,” he hisses, Dean raising his hands to push the Knight of Hell away, the First Blade clattering on the floor. He squirms and bares his teeth in offense at the wandering hand patting down his pockets. Whenever he tries to back up or weasel his way out of Belial’s hold, the Knight of Hell tightens his grip, fingers dig into the tender parts of his shoulder.

The invasive hand moves to the edge of his shirt, beginning to pull it up. Panic rises up Dean’s throat as Belial leans his weight against him to keep him put. He twists his head, staring at the wall behind him in mortification, effectively pinned and trapped. Dean’s chest feels tight and he’s desperately trying to break free. Belial gives a noise in irritation, ramming his head against the Winchester’s. That quiets the hunter down for the moment, the strike down on the hunter’s nose causing it to bleed.

“Clever, you have it tattooed on,” the Knight of Hell comments when he sees the anti-possession tattoo. “Dean,” Belial begins optimistically, “I’m a collector. A connoisseur of the exotic and rare. This is something I have yet to see and for it to be coming from you? Now that sounds exotic to me. So why not kill two birds with one stone?” 

The Winchester prays for Castiel, desperately hoping for the angel to appear and lend him a hand. His head is still reeling from Belial’s attack and the quiet realization Castiel won’t show. With ragged inhale of air, he glances past Belial to the discarded Blade, his hand reaching out for it. He is praying for it to magically jump into his hand, but instead it lays abandoned on the floor. 

Before Dean can swear at the Knight of Hell, he listens to the soft click of a switchblade being flicked out. He thrashes, again, against the Knight of Hell, reaching out and trying to dig his fingers into the entity’s eyes. There is a bark of laughter, the Knight of Hell unfazed, before cold steel is digging into his skin.

—————————————————————

“As much as I enjoy this, you’re really a distraction.”

Locating the possible entrances into Heaven isn’t exactly a Google search away. As ambitious as looking for a way into Heaven sounds, it’s not an easy feat. Sam’s not too sure what to look for, and Lucifer is, surprisingly, unsure himself. Heaven has never been sealed the way it is now, and Lucifer never took a good look at his part of the tablet, only encasing it in stone when it fell into his possession. Perhaps more can be accomplished by having Lucifer canvas Earth for any anomalies, but Sam doesn’t want to risk someone noticing him. What if Metatron catches scent of Lucifer? What about Michael? What about Crowley and Abaddon? 

Sam won’t risk Lucifer’s safety.

Lucifer seems rather at ease and confident Sam will find a solution, resting his chin on Sam’s right shoulder and looking at the computer screen. Sam has a hunch that Lucifer is just milking these quiet, uninterrupted moments while he still can. Occasionally the blond will push his nose into the side of his neck and Sam is oddly reminded of Lucifer as a sparrow, always insistent on remaining situated on said spot. The Winchester has made himself comfortable against the archangel in return, leaning against his chest and letting him support his weight. 

“You haven’t made much progress in the past hour…” Lucifer argues. 

Sam snorts in disbelief, turning his head and managing to bump both of their noses together. “Excuse me?” the hunter huffs out incredulously, dangerously close to the blond’s mouth. Lucifer gives a lazy smile and boldly pushes his lips against his in a brief kiss. Sam gives a shaky inhale of air when the archangel pulls back. He still isn’t quite used to this and it still terrifies him a bit how natural it feels. 

“You’re excused,” the blond hums out cheekily. 

It has been a mission of Lucifer’s to kiss Sam whenever given the opportunity. He’s explained one night how curious the channels of energy are when it comes to an archangel such as himself kissing not only his true vessel, but a human being. When they kiss, it’s as if there is an electrical discharge occurring. Lucifer describes it as being the same harmonization process they achieved before when Sam helped heal the archangel. There is that shared rush, but there is something more to it. Something more than two halves of a whole coming together. 

Sam feels as if they’re caught in this temporary loophole, finding these moments to explore the other intimately (even if it hasn’t been anything past kosher kisses) when it shouldn’t be possible. A part of him feels guilty that he’s expecting the other shoe to drop sooner than later. 

“You know, you’re not as concerned about finding Heaven as I thought you would be,” the Winchester voices out loud. 

“I am concerned,” comes the gentle defense. 

“I…I know that, I mean…” Sam let’s his hand rise and fall, “concerned concerned.” 

There is a moment of silence before Lucifer is carefully sliding away from Sam, leaving his back cold. The angel slips off the bed, standing in one of Sam’s old sweatshirts and jeans. He pads about the room aimlessly, brows pinched in thought, hands shoved in the sweatshirt’s front pocket. It’s such a human gesture, Lucifer pacing, and he has a hunch the angel picked it up from him. 

“I am concerned over Heaven, but it is not my main priority — ” Lucifer concludes diplomatically. 

“It’s your home,” Sam interjects loudly, surprised by the answer. 

“It is not my home, Sam,” the angel returns, pausing in step and turning to stare at the brunette. Sam watches Lucifer work his jaw, eyes pinning him in place. “Time works differently in Hell, as you well know,” the archangel begins again, his words sobering to the Winchester. “A month in Hell is ten years on Earth. Same applies in Heaven. I spent more time in Hell than I ever did in Heaven. If anything, the Cage would be considered my home,” he sighs out matter-of-factly. 

“Luce… I’m sorry, I didn’t — ”

Lucifer shakes his head and raises his voice over Sam’s, “Don’t be sorry. The thing is, Sam, the Cage isn’t my home. Neither is Hell. I…found something new that I’d like to consider my home.” 

Sam nods solemnly, turning his eyes back to the computer screen. He doesn’t know what to say — he wants to apologize again, but instead he clears his throat a bit too loudly. “So,” he begins, trying to change the subject, “this main priority of yours is?”

“Ensuring my new home is safe and unharmed,” Lucifer answers easily. Sam gives a nod in agreement. “In other words, Sam, you are my main priority.”

The Winchester looks up at the archangel, mouth slightly parted in surprise. The blond gives a grin, moving closer to Sam on the bed until his knees are hitting the mattress. 

The hunter closes his laptop and carefully leans to the side opposite of Lucifer, depositing it on the nightstand nearby. “You sure this isn’t a way of convincing me to take a break from research?” Sam inquires as coolly as he can, but his skin feels as if has been branded by a red hot heat, and his smile feels permanent. He moves closer to the archangel on his knees until he’s before him. 

Lucifer matches his smile with his own, cool fingers reaching out from the depths of the borrowed sweatshirt to grab Sam’s hands. He playfully pulls at his hands, sneaking them into the large pocket in the front, both of their hands crowding the space. “Guilty as charged,” the archangel hums out, tilting his head and making a move forward. 

“… _charged_ ,” the Winchester rushes out in sudden realization. 

Sam’s hands are slipping away, soon the Winchester altogether pulling away from the archangel. “I can’t believe we haven’t even thought about what’s going to happen after we find a way into Heaven!” Sam continues out, missing Lucifer frown in disappointment at the sudden change in conversation. “Is Metatron all charged up after what he did? Is he still carrying the strength of some average angel or is he all juiced up with…Heavenly Grace or something?” he rambles on, already making a move back to his laptop.

“It’s possible,” Lucifer sighs petulantly, a displeased sound trapped in the base of his throat before continuing on, “but remember that each of us are crafted to hold a certain amount of energy. If we exceed the limit, it can prove detrimental to the angel carrying it.”

Sam nods, sitting back on the bed as he mulls over this information, deciding not to grab the laptop. “So just like…an angel who is sitting in the wrong vessel. Eventually eats the vessel up.”

“Correct.”

“So I know the trials helped kick everyone out of Heaven, but there has to be more. Metatron wouldn’t just sit in Heaven by himself and that’s it,” Sam finds himself talking out loud, trying to hash out his thoughts. “There has to be more to this. I got to call Kevin.”

“Right now?” 

The hunter pauses, for a moment, in his searching for his phone at the disgruntled response from the archangel. “Right now,” Sam confirms, missing the disappointment scrunching itself onto the blond’s forehead. He finds the phone and Kevin’s contact information, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Hey, Kevin, it’s me, Sam.”

_“Sam! Where the hell are you? What is going on? Is Lucifer with you?”_

The Winchester has to pull the phone away, Kevin’s voice loud enough to carry into the room. 

“Kevin, slow down,” Sam begins, cautiously bringing the phone back to his ear. Kevin doesn’t seem to hear because he’s continuing on. “Just…slow down. Lucifer is here with me and we’re fine. I’m putting you on speaker.”

_“What the heck is going on?”_

“It’s…complicated,” Sam lamely replies.

There is a pause over on the other line before Kevin is giving a snort in disbelief, _“You’re going to call me after — how many weeks you’ve been gone now — and just tell me that ‘it’s complicated?’”_

“I…you’re right, that’s not fair of me,” Sam admits, glancing up at Lucifer for help. Lucifer unhelpfully shrugs his shoulders, not quite sure what to say. “Look, long story short, it wasn’t safe for Lucifer to be in the bunker and I…” Sam sighs, rubbing at his temple. He’s not sure he should share that he got into a fist fight with Dean the last time they saw each other. “I needed to get out. Dean and I…need some time to just breathe on our own.”

 _“Well, thanks for the heads up there,”_ Kevin retorts, unconvinced. 

“Sorry, Kevin. That was shitty of me,” he apologizes again. Clearing his throat, he adds quickly, “Anyways, how are things? How is your mom?”

_“Mom is doing well. Pretty much all healed up. She’s been reading up all the lore she can in the library. I’m doing good, but I don’t think Dean is doing so hot.”_

Sam quietly thinks of the nightmares that continue to reoccur. He works his jaw and glances at Lucifer, conflicted once more. Going back means the chance of Lucifer getting hurt, but it’s Dean. It’s his brother, and at the end of the day, that’s all he has in this world. “Did…something happen?” he replies, voice strained as he glances, again, at Lucifer. 

_“No clue — maybe it’s because you left?” Kevin ventures. “But he’s pretty much a short fuse. Castiel and him are off somewhere doing who knows what. They haven’t been back in…five days, I want to say.”_

“Maybe they went to track down the First Blade…” Sam ventures before sighing heavily and finally pulling his gaze away from Lucifer when the archangel shoots him a concerned look. “Look, there is another reason I’m calling. We’re trying to figure out how we’re going to tackle the whole Metatron problem, but we need to know just a bit more about the tablet regarding Heaven. Metatron knew what was on those tablets because, well, he wrote it. Is there anything else on there that might…be some sort of…power boost? Anything that gives him an advantage in being the only one in Heaven other than…well, you know, him not being crippled by the fall?”

_“You want to know if Metatron can pretty much go into boss mode.”_

“Exactly.”

_“I’ll check it out and let you know. In the mean time, can you two **please** come back or something?”_

“I…maybe, Kevin. I don’t know, but listen…if for some reason you and your mom start to feel unsafe in the bunker, don’t hesitate to just leave. You two being safe is important.” It makes him feel sick even having to say it, working his jaw in dismay. This isn’t right. This whole thing isn’t right, and here he is states away from Dean. 

_“Got it, Sam.”_

Lucifer is soon crawling on the bed, moving closer to the phone. “Kevin, it’s Lucifer,” the archangel interrupts, “when you do decide to leave, please call Sam before you actually do so. I want to make sure your mother and yourself are safe.”

 _“Good to hear from you too, Luce. I’ll make sure to do so. Take care…and oh, Lucifer?”_ Lucifer tilts his head, eyeing the phone as if he’s expecting to see Kevin or something of the sort on it. _“Mom says that if Sam gets hurt on your watch, she’s going to kick your ass.”_ Sam’s brows rise, giving a smile in amusement at the archangel who is nodding solemnly. _“She gave me a more graphic version, but I’m just summarizing.”_

“I won’t let that happen.” 

_“You two take care. I’ll keep you two updated.”_

Sam ends the call, humming in thought to himself, “Why do you want Kevin to give you the heads up before they leave?”

The blond busies himself trying to find a comfortable spot on the bed, ending up sitting cross-legged, with his hands weaseling themselves back into the sweatshirt’s pocket. “My concern is that the minute Kevin and his mother leave, they will no longer be protected by the bunker,” Lucifer explains, wiggling a bit on the bed. “My worry is that Metatron or Crowley may take advantage of such and hurt them. I’ve seen what Crowley has done to Ms. Tran, and I have read what was done to Kevin in the past.”

Sam looks impressed, nodding to himself, “And Metatron?” He wants to tell Lucifer that maybe waiting for Kevin to call them once shit finally hits the fan isn’t the right way. Hearing Lucifer voice his concerns to Kevin over the phone and, now, his explanation makes his own warning sound…selfish. He wants to ask Lucifer to promise him that he’ll remove the Mark if it actually gets that far, but he’s afraid of what the answer may be. Maybe there is another way to — 

Sam shakes his head and blurts out, interrupting the archangel, “I… I feel like shit that I’m here and not next to Dean.” Lucifer shoots him a quizzical look, opening his mouth again, but Sam can’t help himself, “I know, before you even say it. I know that I…I said I need some breathing room and what was going on with you and him was not even remotely close to being okay. I just can’t help but feel like I’m…abandoning him.” 

Lucifer straightens up, reminding him carefully, “Caring for your own well-being is not you abandoning Dean.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want Kevin to have to call us to tell us that he’s leaving because Dean has completely gone AWOL. That isn’t how it should be and I… It wasn’t right for me to tell Kevin to just book it like Dean’s some monster…” Sam protests before trailing off. He doesn’t want to see the Dean he keeps on seeing in his dreams. “Luce, you have to make me a promise. If it gets bad — I mean, it’s bad now, but if it becomes uncontrollable, you have to get rid of the Mark.”

“Sam — ” Lucifer begins, shaking his head and making a motion to slide off the bed, but Sam reaches out to grab at his knee. That keeps Lucifer in place, frowning at the hand. 

“If you won’t do it for him, do it for me.”

A pained look flashes on Lucifer’s face, and his eyes close. “That’s not fair, Sam,” he finally heaves out. Lucifer opens his eyes to look at Sam, and he sees something akin to betrayal and hurt on the Winchester’s features. “That’s not how it works. I cannot make you that promise. Dean did more than hurt you, Sam. He abused your autonomy. Took away your right to make a decision on your own, allowing an angel to trick and use you. This was far before Dean even received the Mark. This was all his doing. I was fortunate that I was able to intervene before it got worse. The point, Sam, is that the Mark only goes to those who are deserving of it. The Mark chose Dean, not me.”

“It’s my brother, Luce.”

“I told you before that I would consider it, but I cannot promise you that I will remove the Mark. The Mark and how it affects Dean is determined off of his choices, and who he sees himself as. He can control it — ” Lucifer explains once more, but he can already see Sam pulling away. 

“You know…” Sam heaves out, getting to his feet and stowing the phone in his jean’s pocket, “I need some fresh air. I’ll be back.” 

Sam hastily puts on his shoes, refusing to look at the archangel in fear he’ll lose his nerve. He doesn’t know what will happen if he does decide to go back to the bunker and stick it out with Dean. He’s not even sure if he’ll be able to bring Lucifer with him, thinking back on how his brother and Lucifer butted heads. 

The hunter shakes his head, focusing on getting some fresh air. He can only wonder if he spoke too soon and this, right here, is the other shoe dropping.

—————————————————————

Dean has screamed himself hoarse from the pain, Belial not as clean and precise as the hunter expected. As cold metal continues to carve the anti-possession tattoo out, all he can think of is Alastair. His looming mentor with the offered razor before he’d sigh and turn the razor onto him. Alastair was never sloppy with his craft, but he’d painfully draw out each and every cut. Dean grimaces, feeling blood run down his chest and stomach as Belial continues to work on removing the anti-possession tattoo.

Something tender is sliced through and a gurgled whine leaves his mouth, eyes filling with tears. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes. Hell seems just a bit closer with his eyes closed. The heat of the wound isn’t quite the same as it is in Hell, but it’s similar. Dean’s gut clenches in nervous anticipation.

Dean isn’t sure when the pocketknife is gone, his chest seeming to throb to the beat of his heart. His eyes are still slammed shut, breathing laborious and hands balling into fists at his side.

“Oh, this has to be framed. Clean it up, find a way to keep the flesh fresh and new. At least, now, we can move on forward…” Belial is chatting. Dean swears he can hear Alastair’s voice parroting back the same thing, amused. Hell feels too fresh and real in his mind, the nervous anticipation in his gut beginning to make him nauseous. 

Dean opens his eyes and he can’t keep a straight face. Can’t manage a snarl or a frown at his abuser. There is only panic and a plea that is forming in his mouth, already ashamed of himself for waving the white flag. He’s not sure if he can hold on anymore. Before he can spit the words out, Belial cuts him off, black smoke curling in the air before him. Dean’s plea is silenced as the taste of ash hits the back of his throat. 

The hunter gives out a wheezed sound, both hands touching his throat, doubling over as he feels something digging itself down his gullet.

“Get fucking out of me,” Dean chokes out, eyes watering. 

“Interesting effect, huh?” Magnus smiles, moving away from Dean with the sliced skin in hand. “Just a little bit of me to help…” his lips purse together thought before finishing with a chuckle, “teach you some manners. I do this enough, and you’ll be ready for whatever I have in mind.”

Dean issues out a painful cough, finding himself sinking onto his knees once more. Something resembling fuck you is issued out through Dean’s fit of coughing, the Knight of Hell shaking his head scoldingly. “Just stop fighting it, Dean,” he sighs out, “it’ll make all of this easier on us both.”

The hunter thinks of sticking his fingers down his throat, blindly hoping that maybe he can throw-up the bits and pieces of the Knight of Hell. Through the soundtrack of him dry heaving and gagging on his own fingers, he listens to the Knight of Hell repeat himself. He listens to Alastair repeat alongside of him. 

Just stop fighting.

Let go.

Embrace it. 

Just stop fighting. 

Let go.

Embrace it. 

_Give in, Dean._

There is Alastair offering him the razor blade, giving him the same offer as he does every single day. Dean reaches out and takes said offer. He gives in, but not to the Knight of Hell. He gives in to the Mark pulsating on his arm. 

His gut gives a uncomfortable flip, the Winchester’s head hanging before he’s retching out something black and foul. The Knight of Hell makes a sound in surprise at the murky contents on the floor. Dean’s fingers don’t search for the Blade next to him. The Blade comes to him, heat curling around his spine as he tilts his head back. His arm feels complete and he feels whole. 

The Knight of Hell only witnesses the flash of teeth, stained black, before the Blade is being swung towards him. 

It’s as clean as one can be with a blade that is more bone and teeth than anything else. He watches whatever is left of Belial shudder in a show of red light behind his open mouth and frozen eyes. Dean stares at the decapitated Knight of Hell, spitting whatever dark muck is still in his mouth onto the body. The Mark makes his skin prickle, the hair on his arm standing to attention. Dean turns to look at it, surprised by how weightless the Blade feels now. It’s light…easy to carry. 

Dean shakes his head, gnashing his teeth, hissing at himself in reminder. 

This _thing_ in his hand is not good. It’s nothing to be proud of. It’s nothing to be revered. It’s wrong. Dean’s not sure if he’s still referring to the Blade or his time in Hell. There is sweat collecting on his brows, but he can’t find the willpower to drop the blade. Not yet. He can hold onto it for a bit longer. The hunter closes his eyes, listening to its hum throughout his bones as the stench of sulfur becomes almost nauseating from the corpse at his feet. 

It takes an hour before Castiel and Crowley manage to create an entrance within the Knight of Hell’s hidden fortress. Dean found something to patch the wound on his chest as he waited. Dean stumbles out, a bit dazed, but fury boils in his blood when he sees Castiel. His grip tightens on the Blade as he rounds up on him.

“What the hell, Cas? Did you hear me praying for you?” he shouts, the angel looking haggard and weary. Crowley carefully takes a few steps to the side, not wishing to be caught in the crosshairs of this spat.

“I…” Castiel begins, before nodding apologetically, “Dean, yes, I did.”

Dean’s fist goes flying, hitting the angel square in the jaw. It disturbs his bandaging and wound, placing a hand over the blooded portion of his shirt, wincing in pain. Castiel stumbles backwards, nearly losing his footing.

“I needed you, Cas!” Dean shouts, taking a few steps in a motion to close the distance between the two of them, but stops himself midway. He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose with his left hand. “I…needed you, Cas,” he huffs out, feeling his head swimming.

Crowley clears his throat delicately, “Well, so this First Blade. Going to assume that it worked?”

It takes the Winchester a moment to respond, dropping his left hand back to his side. He can still feel that easy thrill of using the Blade, heart still beating wildly in his chest. It terrifies him. He takes a deep breath and gives a nod, “Yeah, it worked.” Dean shoots a dark look at Cas, still irritated at being left there to fend for himself. “It worked fine. Now what we need to do is use it on Abaddon and call it a friggin’ day.”

“Of course, of course,” Crowley agrees, briefly eyeing Dean’s right hand where the Blade laid, “I wonder if I could — ”

“No, Crowley. You can’t touch it. Can’t get a closer look at it. Nada. Just find Abaddon so I can gank her,” Dean snaps in warning, the King of Hell lifting his hands up in mock surrender. “Look, the longer we dick around, the longer she gets to walk about thinking she owns the world. If I remember correctly, that also means Hell,” he reminds sharply. The demon gives a flourish of a bow mockingly before disappearing. 

“Dean, I’m — ” Castiel begins.

“I know, you’re sorry,” the Winchester huffs out, patting his pockets down for the Impala’s keys. Castiel helplessly watches the Winchester stomp off to the Impala, quietly trailing after him. The two silently pile into the car and Dean finds a way to drive with the First Blade still held tight in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  "You left part of yourself back in the Pit. Let’s see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?" Alastair, 4.16   
> 

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review._


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